


stardust

by colferstilinski



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Human, Extremely Underage, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Shotiles, Stiles is ten
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-09 18:41:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 41,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colferstilinski/pseuds/colferstilinski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek reasons that he never said he was a good person.</p><p>Not <i>bad</i>, necessarily. Just—not exactly prime material as an upstanding citizen either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Heed these warnings before you proceed: This /is/ a work of fiction and it has very strong tendencies for paedophilia that could either be taken as extremely creepy or if shota is your kink, then not so creepy. STILES IS TEN YEARS OLD WHILE DEREK HALE IS TWENTY FIVE, if this squick you, DO NOT READ FURTHER.
> 
> I REPEAT, THIS FIC HAS PAEDOPHILIA CONTENT AND WILL EVENTUALLY HARBOUR ONTO SEXUALIZED SITUATIONS WHEREAS DEREK AND STILES ENGAGE IN PHYSICAL ACTIVITIES WHILE STILES IS TEN YEARS OLD AND DEREK IS TWENTY-FIVE.
> 
> This /is/ a work of fiction and I *DO NOT*, again, *DO NOT* condone paedophilia in real life. In any context that is not fictionalized, paedophilia is a *NO* for me but since this IS fiction, creative reigns are limitless. So, if SEVERELY underage content bugs you, STEP AWAY FROM THIS FIC. CLOSE IT. DO IT RIGHT NOW. YES.
> 
> I will not entertain rude comments and will inadvertently block and delete such comments.
> 
> Second warning (well, not so much): This *IS* a WIP and I will try to continue updating weekly! I've the main storyboard planned out, it's just finding the words, that's all! To add on, this is not beta read. Will never be beta read. All mistakes are mine. I can't english anymore.
> 
> Thirdly, I do hope you guys enjoy this. I've been having the worst, absolute worst, writer's block and I've actually wrote about 150 words of this story before I gave up. Comments would be much appreciated and would inspire me to write a lot quicker! :*

Derek grows particular for a subjected lover (he uses this term loosely) when he’s about twenty-five. Call it a quarter-aged epiphany, or what’s not.

It’s not immediate though. The change, that is. It had bloomed and anchored as a recurring fascination even before Derek came to terms with it. It’s just… he was always too wary to indulge. Constantly contemplated how wrong it is— _was._

He finally said to hell with it on a summer’s Monday, because aren’t Mondays just real _troopers_.

Derek woke up hating _everything_. Heat was pelting through the small crack of his bedroom window, stifling the already confining space with more particles of air dust. Or, his job, which is a fucking nine to five with no leaves—that, and he’s being constantly grinded by the heads.

 _Then_ , he spends half of his pay check on monthly instalments for a car that he never gets to use since he lives in the most robust city in America where driving is near impossible without jerking at every stop light.

What _really_ soured his mood (to a degree where Derek was certain hell hath no fury) was when he finally decided to go for his morning run and realized he hadn’t updated the music in his iPod since Justin Bieber was a _thing_. Not that he had Justin in his playlist.

(That’s a lie.)

He caught the next flight out and left his sister, Laura, with a half-assed attempt of an apology note on the kitchen counter.

It read: _‘Lou, take good care of our apartment. I know its short notice and I’ll still continue paying half of my rent but I just… I need to fuck off for a while. In search for, shit. Something. I don’t know, really. I’m sorry. (Not really.) Love, D.’_

When he’s finally back home state in North California, in a small town called Beacon Hills, he knew he’s made the right decision. His boots crunched under the planes of grasses and the forestry breathed essence and such vibrancy than New York could never have delivered.

Central Park could pick up a few tips on how-tos’ from the preserve of Beacon Hills, really.

Derek begins to seek despite not exactly knowing know what’s he actually searching for.

-

Gone are the days where he catches a random gaze out in the flurry of pulsating bodies in a club, or a hole in the wall bar. The ‘tricks’ used to be underage boys with unconvincing fake ids and a fervent necessity to prove their worth with spit for lube hand jobs in the back room or a rank toilet cubicle.

Derek’s really only being generous, and also courteous, by engaging in their bait, he says defensively.

However, just sometimes, he does lure.

He would whisper the filthiest of promises into their ears, until their cheeks dot with pink and eyes blowing into blackened coals. He would say that he’ll suck them off, voice a mere rasp against their flushed lobes.

They always follow too, with such youthful hunger glinting in their eyes. Derek would strip their pink cocks in the rough of his fist, already wet with spit as he slurs indecency against the column of their neck to bring them over the edge.

It’s absolutely delightful and started off exiting. The first couple of times, especially.

Derek vividly remembers one encounter mostly, with that one kid called Aaron, or a somewhat similar douche name that usually belongs on a jock.

Aaron was such a light in the mellow of the bar that Derek just couldn’t deny. That kid licked sweetly into his mouth, a palette that tasted like cranberries meshing with hard liquor, while his clothes stank of weed.  He came before the boy did, spurted white on the hem of his shirt which Derek then swept it up with his index finger and popped them into the boy’s mouth, giving him the first taste of another man’s intimacy.

Needless, it slowly became a sordid fascination.

The idea, or revelation, that Derek would be able to witness the first blush of an orgasm from someone in their late teens just had him going. It increases tenfold when they have never been touched intimately by another person before.

It made him throb at the core, balls aching and heavy as he listens intently to that first hitch of breath being punched out from their chest when he grips them nicely around their dick, hand fitting around their girth. The softest of whimper would be pressed into his neck and just— _fuck_.

But in short months though, Derek no longer gets off on it (them).

He gives himself reasons like; maybe he’s grown out of it? Maybe, he’s suddenly into the idea of focusing more on himself instead of worrying where his cock would be wetting in? Or, maybe (just maybe), he could be into the idea of more than just hurried hook-ups?

It could be possible. Derek’s always liked the idea of having a family, something big, with the whole dream of picket fence and family game nights. He used to have that, a big home, but that quickly slipped through loose fingers when his parents filed for a mutual divorce. He was left with Talia, his mother, and Laura until they went off to New York for college together while his father fucked off with some teenage blonde.

Guess it does run in the family, then.

But, really, it’s that niggling voice at the back of his head, urging him that maybe if they were a _little_ younger. Just a little, of course, still baring that youthful innocence which high school usually strips off with public humiliation and peer pressure.

As he fucks his cock into the dry of his fist and comes when he lets himself think of the what if’s (petite little child, so fragile that his cock might rupture the wrinkles of their pink asshole, uncluttered with pubic hair and limbs still carrying baby fat), Derek reasons that he never said he was a good person.

Not _bad_ , necessarily. Just—not exactly prime material as an upstanding citizen either.

-

Derek’s been back home state for a week, living in his old family house where he found the hidden key behind the porch lamp. He wonders why Talia has simply left their family house outside the preserve an empty shell of a home instead of renting it out, or selling it, after she moved to Arizona.

There are questions and then there are _questions_.

He decides to do some light grocery shopping anyway when he realized the atrocity in the kitchen cabinets. It’s not exactly ideal to munch on cob-webs and long stale spaghetti noodles. That and he only know how bad it’s gotten with the cheap take-outs when Derek’s considered a regular at one of the diners.

Susan, a middle aged lady that dresses as though she’s kept her wardrobe from the 80s, owns one with her husband that serves a great menu for greasy, classic breakfast, rang up his order before he even stepped in.

He doesn’t only want to be remembered simply as the guy who orders Set B with orange juice at the side.

It’s nice though, not that he minds it a lot. _Different_ , he supplies.

New York is such a busy city and everyone is trapped in their own personal bubble of resolute and problems. He included. Derek’s not going to make himself out as a saint here.  He often argues that the city transforms a person, regardless if they come from a small homebound town where everyone knows your name and gossip or just someone who wants a new adventure in a big concrete jungle because in New York—you’re _nobody._

Nothing. Faceless. Anonymous, really.

Hell, one could be a twenty-five something interior designer with no acute goals in life while maintaining a sick fantasy for wanting to fuck pretty teenagers and nobody would even blink an eyelid. (Derek’s not talking about himself. Shut up. It’s just a—an _example_. A specific example. That Derek quite relates to a certain degree.)

Point is: he’s doing grocery shopping. That’s when he spots _the_ boy. (Yeah, it deserves emphasis.)

The kid is standing on his tiptoes, stunted arms reaching and failing to grasp out to one of the higher shelves at the cereal aisle. He’s also making these… soft, disgruntled noises through his nose because he’s not tall enough to get his fingers to graze against one of the several bran flakes at the top shelf that’s gotten his attention.

Derek watches, slightly in rapt, for a few short seconds anyway before he snaps out of it.

Because—he’s never seen a flush run that high on fattened cheeks before. It makes them almost _too_ pudgy, a brewing yearn stirs because he really wants to squeeze them in between his fingers, feel it moulding under his touch. Or, that his profile is smattered with dark dots, almost hindering the pale of his skin that contrasts quite beautifully with the dark mop of hair on his head, one side sticking up.

Or, which is by far the worst, a pink tongue just edged out slightly, glistening with saliva and a mouth that shapes with the most pronounced cupid bow Derek has ever seen. That mouth would look so good around his cock—it _would._

Derek takes it all back, considering. He rightfully belongs in jail.

He looks behind his shoulder, checking for any wary passer-by’s, just in case. Derek knows how he looks like. He’s not _blind_ or obtuse. He’s all taut muscles coupled with jeans that bunch too tight at his thigh area (it’s not his fault that he never misses leg day) and stubble littering at the sharp of his jawline down to his neck.

It could be taken quite… well, _correctly_ , when seen by suspicious grocery shoppers. It’s not every day a guy like him walks up to a distressed little boy. That and he actually got himself a semi pressed at the left of the crease of his crotch. Christ, he’s actually sixteen.

“Need help?” Derek asks quietly and thinks maybe orange could be his colour anyway.

The boy flails back, squawking out a note. Derek immediately catalogues the sound into his spank bank because he’s a fucking pervert and watches how the kid has a momentarily balance lapse.

Kid’s like bambi without the long, lean limbs.

He’s struggling to center himself with the balls of his heels, one hand gripping at the edge of the shelf and the other clutching on his cheeks. His cheeks are also all puffed up. Derek maybe wants to die a little. Just a bit. You can’t fault him that the kid looks straight out from the dirty things his mind usually racks up as he comes into a wad of balled up tissues.

“Oh my god— _dude._ You scared me for a second. I think my heart did more than a flip.”

Derek snorts, pleasantly surprised. The boy speaks with his entire body, movements alight that scarily reminds him of animated films. Like, what was that one movie—the one with dragons. Yeah, _that_ kid. His boy looks exactly like him—uh, _the_ boy. Not his. Yet.

“You’ll live,” Derek says, a small smile edging at his lips. “Do you need help with the—” He nods, motioning his hand towards the bran flakes that he was eyeing on.

“Yeah, that’d be awesome, uh, sir?” The kid says and his voice ticks up at the end, airy and usually evident in prepubescent boys that haven’t begun puberty.

Derek shakes his head and goes to pick up the brand of cereal the boy wants then hands it to him. It’s all very nonchalant, casual, even though he valiantly hopes that their fingers would brush against each other. Hey, to his defence, they’re such small hands in comparison to his own.

He could probably wrap both of the boy’s fists into his—he’s just so… _petite._ Yeah, that’s definitely the right word.

“Thanks!” The kid shakes the box, gestures to it wildly as though he’s trying to condense all his gratitude into the whole of his existence with a blinding smile and clear doe eyes.

Derek really needs to take a moment to regain his composure, maybe punch himself in the testicular region, to not regress into being a love struck teenage girl who writes disgusting poems about their crush’s, god forbid, _teeth_.

He’s so fucking _adorable_ , though, shit.

Derek kind of wants to meet the boy’s parent to slap them on the back and just go, _job well fucking done._ Your DNA has successfully created the most vibrant and delightful child that I’ll probably spend ruining which he may or may not need therapy in the future to recover.

He doesn’t, though. Derek’s a social hermit not a fucking weirdo.

“Where’s your mom, anyway?” Derek asks curiously. Not because he wants to follow through with his plan but like, that’s a normal thing for adults (non fucked up ones) to ask wandering children in public, _right?_ Right.

The kid bites on his lips, hesitates on his reply. Derek would deny but his cock jumps in his jeans, spurs him on even more as though exchanging less than five sentences with the boy and wanting to completely ruin the boy isn’t enough.

“My mom lives in the clouds.” He starts and Derek frowns down at him. “I mean, I know that she’s, y’know _,_ gone.” _Oh._ “But, I’d like to think that. It’s quite pretty, anyway. Clouds.”

“They’re alright, I guess.” Derek says, a little lost for words because— _wow._

“Not just _alright_ ,” The kid argues back, clutching the cereal box against his chest as though he’s prepared to fight a grown man to _make_ Derek take back his words. Fucking adorable. “Especially when they start looking like animals! Those are really cool. Me and Scott usually sit out at my backyard and see how many we can spot.”

“Scott?” Derek asks, slightly curious. Maybe it’s his dad?

“My best friend _for life_.” He says proudly, grinning, that Derek returns because how can he not. “Scott likes puppies but my favourite—like, _favouritest_ animalever are bunnies!”

“Favouritest?” Derek laughs softly. “Don’t think that’s a word, kid.”

“Well, it _should_ be because—because Stiles says so.”

Derek tilts his head, “Stiles’ another best friend, I reckon?”

“What?” The boy quirks a brow at him before he continues. “Oh, no. No, you got it all wrong, sir. _I’m_ Stiles. Me. Stiles is me. Like, _Style_ but with an ‘S’ at the end. Well, not really. That’s spelt all differently. S. T. I. L. E. S. That’s me. Stiles.”

Derek really wants to go fuck it and pick him up, probably twirl him around a bit while he press kisses against Stiles’ temple. Fuck, he’s _so_ gone. He thinks he can finally relate back to that book he read ages ago, Lolita, was it? Except, not really either. Derek’s less profound and probably unable to relate the sun, the ecosystem and everything that is beautiful in the world back to Stiles.

“Hello Stiles, whose favourite animals are bunny shaped clouds.” Derek chuckles fondly, lets Stiles’ name roll off on his tongue almost too reverently. “I’m Derek.”

“ _Favouritest_ ,” Stiles corrects him, breaking out a giggle that Derek feels it anchoring at the sole of his feet. “Dad says I remind him of a baby bunny.” He pushes his two front teeth out and snuffles his nose. “But then, I also like foxes! So, maybe I could be a bunny fox! That’d be _awesome_.”

When Derek was ten, he thought everything animal related were either dogs (if they go woof) or, if not, cats. There’s nothing else to it. What do you mean the milk he goes with his breakfast cereal comes from a cow? No. That’s a little kitty produce.

He was an absolute terror from age three to, how old is he now? Right, twenty-five. Derek’s pretty certain that if he checks his voicemail now, it’d be Laura yelling in several languages about how much of a dipshit he is for leaving her behind in New York without aforementioned warning.

Absolute terror, he is.

“You know what foxes are?”

“Of course,” Stiles huffs his chests out with such pride before he deflates, shoulders slumping back into his ordinary lithe frame. “I’m ten! I also read a lot, too.” He adds on defensively.

“You’re _ten?_ ” Derek says, taken aback.

Stiles looks so _small_ though, as though Derek could pick him up with two of his fingers. He’s barely even reaching up to his hip, all stunted limbs and ruddy, fattened cheeks. Derek speaks up his thought process, “You look younger.”

“M’ a big boy.” Stiles pouts at him, crossing his arms tighter around the cereal box. “My daddy says I’d be a lot bigger soon and that he would have to buy out a bigger bed too! So, take that, Mr. Weird moustache man.”

“This isn’t a moustache,” Derek laughs, fingering at the coarse grains of his stubble. “S’ a beard, if you’re being technical.”

Stiles’ features crumples, nose scrunching up as he stares at Derek’s beard, blanketed confusing smearing across his face. “Isn’t that the growly animal? The rawrrr and eats your face when they see you in the woods?” Then he does this thing with his hands, paws them at the air as he makes a rumbling snarl that sounds more squeaky than not.

Derek absolutely does not want to fall on the ground, very melodramatically if he may add, to thank all the deities for this boy. He absolutely doesn’t. But, it’s not like it doesn’t _sound_ tempting.

He laughs, instead, because that’s… normal. Yes. “I think what you mean is a bear, not a beard.” Derek chuckles when Stiles makes an ‘o’ with his mouth, humming his bouts of understanding. “Also, I don’t think they eat people’s faces. Fish, probably.”

Stiles squints his eyes at him, dubious. “Really?”

“Well, not _all_ of them would just eat fish.” Derek tells, considering his words. “But I’m pretty sure people’s faces are definitely not on the list of to-eat for them. We’re not _that_ tasty.”

Stiles hums, “You’re… smart.” He states.

“Uh,” Derek’s stumped for words so he shrugs his shoulders, plays it cool. “Thanks. That’s very… validating.”

Stiles smiles up at him, all teeth and eyes crinkling at the corners. He’s probably just doing it to compensate because he may not necessarily _know_ what the word validate even _means_. God, he’s so young—terribly, and awfully but wonderfully young.

The kid probably doesn’t even have one up on any of the life experiences those teenagers he has fucked in bathroom stalls. Hell, Stiles definitely hasn’t even been touched before, lest be having sex. Maybe he doesn’t even know _why_ he gets erections.

_Christ._

“I’ve gotta go, uh, Derek.” Stiles mumbles and it efficiently cuts off that horrible, spiralling train of thought but then his stomach actually swoops. Not that fluttery way either. The way that makes him feel a little uneasy because now that Derek’s heard his name come out of the boy’s sweet, reddened lips, all he really wants now is to hear how it would sound like when it’s being _moaned_ out.

“Dad says we should meet back in ten minutes at the checkout counter since I’m supposed to just get cereal while he gets the other stuff.”

 _Don’t leave_ , Derek thinks deliriously but instead says, “Sure. He must be getting pretty worried anyway.”

“Yeah,” Stiles chirps and then burrows the cereal box to the left of his body, clutches it under his armpit. “Maybe you could teach me more stuff about beards! My dad usually only grows out moustaches and they’re not as cool as yours. Or, bears!”

“Definitely,” Derek assures even though he knows that’s not possible. Fuck. He thinks he may actually be setting the bar of false hopes a lot higher for himself than Stiles is, actually. “I’ll catch you later, kid.” _What._ “I mean, not literally. But, y’know, I’ll see you around.”

He might anyway. Beacon Hills is a small town.

Derek is just turning to leave when Stiles springs out front to grab at his forearm. “Uh, you can come visit me at the police station? My dad’s a deputy so sometimes I get to hang out with him there! Or—or, you could come over my house? Like, right now? Dad won’t mind anyway since it’s the weekend! I’ll bring you to meet him!”

Red warning flags are waving hysterically and a diabolic chant is urging him ‘say no, say no, turn him down, and run for your fucking life, Derek, he’s a deputy’s kid. You’re going on life sentence. Run the _fuck_ away.’

Yet, he lets himself be pulled by Stiles’ tiny little hands wrapped (well, semi wrapped) when he blurts out, “Sure. Got nothing else to do anyway.”

Yeah, Derek really needs a get out of jail free card.

-

“Took you long enough, bud. Thought you lost your way out.” A man with weary lines drawn at the corner of his eyes speaks as soon the both of them round about near the checkout counter. It must be Stiles’ father, Derek reckons.

He tracks Stiles’ hand that’s still latched onto Derek’s arm, little fingers wriggling like they can’t stay still for a quick moment before he rolls his eyes, huffing. “I said get the healthy cereal. Not a health buff.”

Stiles sticks his tongue out at his father, finally releasing his grip around Derek’s arm. “This is Derek.” He points at Derek for emphasis which Derek just give an awkward two finger salute at the deputy. “He’s smart, just like Scott’s mom! And, _and!_ He told me that bears eat fishes, not people!”

Stiles’ father laughs, a warm sound that coats like honey. Derek remembers when his dad used to laugh that way around them. Good times.

“I would apologize for the trauma he’s caused you but,” The deputy pauses, ruffles Stiles’ hair a bit which earns a squawk from Stiles, animated hands batting his away. “He’s quite an energizer, this one.”

Stiles pokes his dad against the hip, correcting, “Energizer _bunny_.”

“Yeah, sure, kid.” He agrees, not even hesitant or discouraging his son’s antics. It’s nice. “But, thanks for rounding him back to me. God knows the amount of times I’ve made a public announcement at malls because I lost my son.” Then he shakes his head, “Where’s my manners. Deputy Stilinski, but since I’m off the clock, it’s just John.”

Derek feels a tremor niggling at the low of his spine when the word ‘deputy’ leaves John’s mouth. “Derek.” He says, and then continues. “Derek Hale.”

“Ah, you’re a local.” John tells with a bout of familiarity in his tone.

It’s odd that his last name still carries such credit or reputation around here but seeing that the Hale generation has been living here for decades, well, it’s not exactly… far-fetched. Sure, it gets a little weird whenever someone who remembers him asks about Talia but he’d take this rather than being back in New York.

He’s been no one for almost seven years and has brushed elbows with plenty of strangers. It’s just really nice to have someone _know_ who he is. Or, just, acknowledging his presence.

John continues, “This town hasn’t seen a Hale since Talia left three years ago, closing the bookshop with her. Had to spend the whole summer trying to make this one to stop crying.”

“Wasn’t _crying_ ,” Stiles argues squeakily, peering up at Derek before he shoots his dad a nasty glare but really it just looks very non-intimidating but—yes, you guessed it. Adorable. “It was allergy season and they made my eyes itchy.”

“ _Sure_ ,” John agrees although not exactly in a believing tone. “Tell that to the few shirts that still have your mucus stains to this day.”

“ _Dad!_ ”

John lifts his hands up, holding a defensive stance. “Okay, okay. I think I’ve reached my quota for the day of embarrassing the hell out of my kid. No more. Promise.” He looks back at Derek. “It’s nice to meet you, son, and welcome back home.”

_Son._

Derek smiles, genuinely and he knows his two front teeth (no, they’re not bunny teeth. They’re just _not_ ) are probably poking through his bottom lip. The earlier bouts of nerves about… well, jail and for thinking about wanting to absolutely ruin this man’s kid dissipates slightly until Stiles speaks up again.

“Is it cool if Derek hangs out with me today?” Stiles asks brightly, giving that look that Derek knows kids actually swap war tales about. The big doe eyes and quivering bottom lip—the one that no fully responsible adult can say no to. “And Scott could totally come along too?”

John raises a brow down at his son, chancing a quick glance at Derek. “Scott has his monthly check up today for his asthma with Melissa. Also, Stiles, remember that talk we had about pulling adults, especially officers at the station, from their responsibilities?”

“But!” Stiles start, almost whining that Derek quickly injects. He thinks it’s probably not a good idea if his dick decides to have a mind of its own and fattens up again. Yeah, definitely not cool at all.

“It’s not a big deal.” Derek shrugs, casually, because he’s _cool._ Totally. “I’ve got nothing holding me up and, it’s been a little too quiet since I flew out from New York. It’s nice to be surrounded by noise again.”

Stiles elbows him at his thigh, making a face. “Are you saying that I’m _loud_?”

“Manners, Stiles. _Jesus._ ” John tells before he makes an apologetic face to Derek.

“Do you _think_ you’re loud, though? That should be your answer.” Derek replies and as soon as the words leave his mouth, he wants to burrow a hole and possibly _die_. He’s actually flirting— _flirting_ —with a deputy’s son. In front of said deputy. Who could still put him in jail for even _thinking_ half of the things that’s been corroding his mind.

Stiles harrumphs at him, stomps his legs in mock anger. John chuckles lowly under his breath.

“I think he’s got you beat for wit, son.” John tells, clapping Derek on the shoulder that feels a lot like acceptance. “Say goodbye to the days of your reign.”

Stiles sniffs, “Well, at least I still got Scott on beat down.”

Derek thinks maybe, _just maybe_ , that the worst has passed.

-

“And _this_!” Stiles chimes heartily, waving his arms around maniacally that Derek has to duck to the other side. “This is my room. Scott helped pick out the paint. We went with _Moss Green_ because it sounded cool.”

Derek sweeps his gaze around the room, bobs his head in acknowledgement towards Stiles. It looks like any ten year old boy’s room. There’s a pile of worn socks and underwear collecting at the corner, comic books lying haphazardly on the desk and under his pillow while action figures strewn across the floor.

“Mm,” Derek hums, lightly checking his hip against Stiles’ shoulder. “You’re a messy one, aren’t you?”

Stiles pinches him at the thigh even though the denim’s too thick to actually feel the bite of pain it comes with.

Derek also realizes it may be a thing for Stiles. The pinching. He just sat through an entire car ride, not entirely _too_ awkward he might add, with John and Stiles while being abused with tiny fingers against his waist as Stiles tries to urge a yelp out of him.

“It’s the very best kind of mess.” Stiles says, almost practiced, like he’s been telling it over and over again to his dad. “There _is_ a system to this madness, I promise you.”

Derek hides a snort behind his hand. “Yeah. I can see that.” His bed isn’t even made, covers still crumpled. “Well, if my house ever needs organizing, you’re definitely on my to-call list.”

Stiles chuckles, “If only my dad could hear you now, he’d be so proud of you. His favourite pastime is witnessing child labour. You’ll be such best friends. Just like me and Scott!” He flops on his bed, hand curling onto sheets. “That would be totally awesome. We could go camping together during this summer.”

Derek could be a better man and deny that he’s not thinking of fucking Stiles’ pale thighs in the quiet of their tent. Their breaths mingled, heady and probably tasting like long melted marshmallows while his palms are moulding, gripping at the fleshy parts of Stiles’ inner thighs. It’d probably be musky heated with boy sweat and probably baby power.

Or, just spend the entire nightfall being allowed to _touch_ all the soft areas of Stiles’ body, his arms, and the little chub collecting around his waist before puberty kick starts and manipulates sinew and muscle into lean, gangly limbs.

But he’s not. A better man, that is. Well, at least it was a good thirty minutes where his mind was _vaguely_ parental acceptable.

Derek clears his throat; mouth gone dry and matting at the top of his palate. “That’d be an idea.” No, it really isn’t. “I haven’t gone camping in years. Not since Laura and I left to New York.”

“Who’s Laura?” Stiles pries, pushing himself up on elbows to get a better look at Derek. “And, isn’t New York really, really far away? Like, on the other side of America, isn’t it? Why’d you move there in the first place?” Then scrunches his nose like he caught a waft of rank. “I don’t think I’d _ever_ want to leave here. I’d miss the curly fries too much.”

A laugh bubbles out of Derek’s chest, curls into fingertips like warmth from a campfire. “There are curly fries almost everywhere you go, Stiles. I’m pretty sure Asia has some decent fries, too. New York has great pizza, though.”

Stiles blows a raspberry through his lips, shaking his head. “Nu- _upe_. They’ll never be as good as the ones old Uncle Sam makes. I actually made a shrine, like, two years ago? Yeah, for those fries. So, don’t argue with me, Derek.”

“Alright, alright.” Derek nudges at Stiles’ knee so that he gets an allowance of space to plop himself down at the edge of the bed. It should be odd that it’s only been less than an hour since the cereal incident but he’s already so— _comfortable_ with lingering fingertips on Stiles.

“You should bring me there sometime to try it. The fries.” Derek suggests, hooking an ankle under his thigh so he manages to angle his body in a way that he’s looking at Stiles. “Probably persuade me with its goodness.”

Stiles’ eyes light up, curving his fingers onto Derek’s forearm again. “Dude, definitely. Their milkshakes are pretty awesome too but nothing beats their curly fries.”

“Well, yeah.” Derek says, maintaining a stoic face. “I hear that some kid built a shrine for ‘em. Insane.”

Stiles completely loses it, curling into himself as he guffaws. His cheeks are plump and rosy as he chokes out the garbles of laughter and the sound of it bounces off the walls, swallowing a tiny bit of Derek’s sanity with it.

“Smart _and_ funny. I like you already.” He tells in an earnest manner, like he hasn’t discovered the typical verbal filter that usually gets stripped away after one reaches a certain age. “I demand that you to be my dad. Yep, my mind is set. You’re way cooler, _and!_ You have a beard. That’s like the _ultimate_ cool.”

Fucking hell. This kid really wants him dead.

Derek cringes out a forced smile; goose pimples creeping down the length of his arms because all he got from _that_ is Stiles wants to call him daddy. That image spurs a heady throb at the core of his cock, heat pulsing in his veins as he tries to disperse the sudden flashes of Stiles panting under him, pleading between wet breaths, _‘Please, I need—I don’t know, but daddy, please.’_

“Don’t think it works like that.” Derek chokes out.

He’s glad that there’s nobody around to witness this conversation unfold, or that he’s absolutely losing his fucking mind over this kid that he’s only known for about an hour or so. A ten year old that Derek wants to destroy repeatedly and endlessly until night and light meshes into blurs of innocence being diffused into come and sweat.

“Also, your dad has a gun.”

“Nah,” Stiles waves it off, a small smile still lurking at the corner of his lips. “He’s got a _baton_. Not a gun. Trust me, I’ve asked him many times about it. Scott even held pancakes above his head to force an answer out. It was all very funny.”

“Pancakes are very intimidating, yes.” Derek says flatly, earning another soft laugh.

There’s a short pull of silence between them, a shared quietness that palpitates in Stiles’ bedroom. He’s slightly hard in his jeans and just—this entire situation is making him feel out of depth. No, that would be an understatement. It feels like he just took a leap into the ocean, never knowing when his feet are going to graze the sea bed.

It’s free fucking falling and Derek’s slightly breathless.

“Laura’s my sister,” Derek finally says, shattering the silence. Talking is good—it’s safe. “She’s two years older than me. Left her alone in New York, though. And, yeah, to your question. It’s on the other side from California.”

Stiles sits up a little, digs his toes under Derek’s thigh. “Won’t she get lonely?” He sounds a little sad, features crumpling a little. “Sometimes I feel like that whenever dad’s doing a long shift at the station and I’m stuck at Scott’s house. I mean, he’s my best friend but, y’know... it’s not the same. Not really.”

Derek lulls over the question, considers it. Is Laura lonely? It’s just been the two of them for the last seven years, no other halves—not exactly. There are quick fucks and sometimes Laura dates but her schedule never allows for it in the long term. In a city so filled with heart and mirth, does anyone truly get lonely?

“Maybe,” Derek shrugs noncommittally. “I don’t know, honestly. I’ve always liked being lonely, though.”

“But—it just gets _so_ boring.”

The smile that creeps at his mouth is sudden because he almost forgot that he’s actually holding a conversation with a ten year old kid and not one of those teenagers that babble about their nonsensical musings that are quite depressing sometimes. Stiles _is_ mature for his age though, at certain aspects but nonetheless, he’s still a child.

A _pre-teen._

But that doesn’t stop Derek when he reaches out to push back the few wispy strands of Stiles’ fringe against his forehead. He’s a fucking risk-taker since John is just downstairs and the door is wide open. “Well, that’s where I teach you the wonders of movie marathons.” Then adds on, “Also, _junk food_. Heaps, even, to the point where guilt is nothing but a passing emotion.”

His hand lingers, thumb tracing patterns against the moles against Stiles’ face that he wishes to track with his tongue. Stiles looks slightly amused and he blows against Derek’s fingers, warm breath coating like a layer of mist on his skin.

“Ticklish,” He tells softly when Derek hovers near his bottom lip. “And, I could do McDonald’s. Their nuggets are something.”

Derek only stumbles off Stiles’ bed, hands by his sides when he hears the loud thudding of footsteps climbing up the stairs. He manages to awkwardly position himself at the foot of Stiles’ bed, limbs not coordinating rightly when John pokes his head through the threshold, asks if he wants to stay for dinner.

He obliges since well, he’s going to hell anyway, might as well get a home cooked meal out of it.

 -

It’s nearing ten and the plates have long been dried and stacked back into the cabinets. The television flickers with some football match that John had put on after dinner and two coasters sitting on the coffee table that’s holding both of their unfinished beer bottles.

“Alright, kid.” John finally quips, pushing himself off the couch and groaning when his back pops a few knots. “Time for bed. It’s an hour past your bed time and don’t think it’s summer that I’m letting you off. Derek has to leave too, I’m sure that he’s got things to do in the morning.”

“Fun sucker,” Stiles pouts then turns to Derek, “Do you want to have a sleepover with me, _Dur_ -ek?”

Derek scoffs out a soft laugh and John shares one with him too. “I think I’m a little too old for sleepovers.”

“ _Pshhh_ , nonsense.” Stiles tells vehemently like the consideration of Derek being _old_ is nothing. “You’re just too old for tea parties. Boys only. No adults _or_ dads. Though I think dad looks quite handsome with a tiara. ” Then giggles into his palm.

“Yeah,” John flushes a little. “Kid’s probably sleep talking. Go to bed, Stiles and I’ll send Derek out.”

Stiles nudges his toes against the carpet before he looks up at Derek, “Will you come play with me tomorrow again? You promised movie marathons! And, you could meet Scott too! We’ll have so much fun. We could even build a fort and pretend we’re power rangers!”

Derek _wants_ to because yeah, Stiles’ doing that face and it’s so tempting to just roll out a yes instead but he knows he needs to back to doing adult things—errands. Like, finally listening to all of Laura’s voicemails and returning all of her messages, or how he needs to sort shit out with his work since he never actually properly resigned from his job.

Atop of that, he actually still need to finish his grocery shopping and probably get to finally buying new electrical stuff since most of the light bulbs have fused after not being used for the last couple of years.

“Uh,” Derek stutters and John cuts in. “Derek, its _fine_. You don’t need to appease my kid especially after all he’s put you through today. He’ll get over it. And, you’re no stranger to our family, okay? You’re always welcomed back.”

“I’ve got some errands to run tomorrow but,” Derek stoops down to Stiles’ height. “Maybe the next day? You promised curly fries too and Scott could join us. I don’t mind.”

“Deal,” Stiles nods, holding his little finger out. “Pinkie swear it!”

Derek snorts, “What, are we five now?”

“Pinkie swear or no deal!” Stiles stomps his feet. “Just think, you’ll never be able to _ever_ take a bite out of the awesomeness that is curly fries because you don’t want to—”

Derek hooks his own finger around Stiles’, successfully shutting him up with a roll of his eyes.

“Deal,” He grinds out. “Do we need to spit in our hands too?”

The difference of size between their hands is jarring.  It amuses and terrifies him at the same time—makes him want to either curl his entire body around Stiles, never letting him up or a constant reminder that he’s _ten_ , and naïve, and fucking forbidden.

“That’s definitely the bro way to do it.” Stiles grins cheekily and throatily collects saliva and mucus before spits into his palm. “There.”

John groans revoltingly, grimaces as he says, “It’s like I’ve suddenly got myself another ten year old on my hands. That’s truly disgusting, Stiles. I’m almost ashamed to say that we share the same blood.” Then points up the stairs, shaking his head. “ _Now_ , bed time and don’t forget to wash your hands.”

Derek feels his cheeks aching and sore with a smile long after he’s in bed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P/S: There's probably a ton of spelling mistakes near the end.
> 
> P/P/S: Thank you for all your amazing comments. It has really motivated me in the last few days and honestly, I have no idea how many chapters this might take. I could draw it out (ha! nah, I'm not that horrible) or probably end it next chapter. We'll see ;) But, there is definitive explicit context the next chapter. So... comment more and tell me to bust my ass in getting the writing done. I've already got the smut scene planned out and dang, boi. You filthy animals would love it.

**(19:32)**  
You’re fucking shit for a brother, did you know that? Fuck you. No, seriously. Who the fuck even does that? What the hell was going through your head? Call me. Now.

 **(06:51)**  
It’s a brand new day. There’s still a deep-seated, putrid hatred for you. When will you be coming back?

 **(18:13)**  
At least answer your goddamn phone, douchebag.

 **(21:49)**  
I told mom, by the way. Have fun with that.

 **(09:27)**  
It’s been a week, Dee. The very least you could do is let me know that you’re not lying in some ditch, dying or dead. I swear, if you are, I’ll come find you and then murder your sorry ass again. Text me, or wait, here’s an idea! Fucking *call* me.

**(11:03)**  
 _Shit. I haven’t switched my phone on since I boarded the plane and… fuck. I messed up, okay? I just, I couldn’t do NYC for one more day, Lou. I’m sorry._

**(11:04)** _  
How are you, anyway?_

**(11:21)**  
How am I?! You’ve got some real fucking nerve, Derek Hale. I am your *sister* and I detest you more than I do than with Walter Jones. And Jones was a real shithead. You are beneath shithead. You are sewage waste, you asshole.

**(11:34)**  
 _I… deserved that. Lou, I’m sorry, okay? I really am. I’ll call you tonight, I promise._

**(11:37)**  
Yeah, I’ll take your promise as word when I see your name on my screen later. Where have you fucked off to?

**(11:42)**  
 _Home. California._

**(11:51)**  
What the ever loving fuck for? We wanted to get away from there, remember? It was the plan. *Our* plan. To be miles away from dad’s bullshit and mom’s … everything. What were you thinking?

Derek tightens his grip around his phone.

**(11:53)**  
 _I wasn’t. We’ll talk later, alright, Lou? I’ve got errands to run._

-

“Well there, dipshit.” Derek winces at the brute, snappish tone in Laura’s voice through his phone’s earpieces. “It’s nice to know that you’re actually alive and your phone wasn’t mysteriously mugged off by some hobo in the last week.”

“Hello to you too, sis. Are we back to you being patronizing?”

“ _Oh_ ,” Laura scoffs. “I’ll patronize the loving heck until I deem fitting, ass wipe. What fucking gives, Derek?”

“I—” Derek starts, taking a deep breath before he plunges. “Would you take my word if I said that this is just some much needed self-actualization journey?”

“What are you on about?” Laura cackles and it sounds shrill, too sharp and hollow. “This isn’t Kramer and you aren’t Meryl Streep, Dee _. Self-actualization_.” She laughs again. “Yeah, too fucking right. If you’re really trying to pull Maslow on me, I’m pretty certain you haven’t gotten to the middle of the pyramid to even _care_ about self-actualization.”

Derek tugs at his hair, the beginning pricks of annoyance biting at his fingertips.

“Jesus. Have you ever thought that I’m _trying_ to work towards it?” Derek grits. “I’ve done the gig of New York for _seven_ years, Lou and it wasn’t—it was _never_ our plan _._ You know it isn’t. It was a fucking escape route! We chose the furthest college just so we could be rid of the shit that sixteen year old us couldn’t deal because we’re absolute fuckers. So, don’t you dare belittle _this_ , Laura.”

A heavy loom of silence carries through both ends of the phone line with just the barest hint of static that tells Derek that Laura hasn’t ended the call. She’s probably taking in Derek’s little outburst. He’s never been prone to get mad—sure, he scowls a lot but he doesn’t throw a temper and hey, everyone has their off days.

But Derek would usually feed that off by reading Jody Picoult in his pyjamas until he feels completely detached from whatever that was weighing in his mind.

“Fine. I’ll take that.” Laura acquiesces. “You could have at least told me that you wanted to go… back. You know I would’ve understood, right? I’m not…” She wheezes out a noise.  “Fuckin’ hell, Dee. I know New York is shit. _I know_ , but it’s _my_ home now. It was yours too; at least until you fucked off without even telling me.”

“It’s not mine.” Derek tells vehemently. “It’s never—” He stutters, trying to find the right words. “I don’t want to be a stranger, Lou. Not anymore.”

Laura snorts, “And you’re _not_ in Beacon Hills?”

Derek shrugs his shoulders even though he knows Laura can’t see. It’s a habit. Well, used to be one of her pet peeves. (Still is.) It always pissed her right off the bat whenever he does it, like it eggs at her that he could literally shrug situations away with the casual nonchalance he carries—like it doesn’t matter.

It does, though. Derek just doesn’t carry it with him.

Yeah, he’s not your stereotypical leather jackets bad boy with the brood and gloom.

“People remember me, yeah.” Derek murmurs lightly. “Susan remembers my breakfast order and gives me free black.  And, uh, Deputy Stilinski? He knew mom. Invited me for dinner last night, actually.” He doesn’t mean to elaborate on it, rather leaves it at that but then his tongue slips. “His son’s a big fan of mom’s old bookstore.”

Laura gives an insufferable sigh, the sound biting over the receiver. Derek knows his sister, the in’s and out’s, and he knows for a fact that she’s done talking. At least for now.

“Fuck. _Fine._ Whatever.” She laments, blowing out a breath. “California or New York, you’re still my baby brother and—could you _at least_ update me about your whereabouts the next time you decide to regress into a teenage rebel again, would you? Spare me the balding of pulling my hair out. _Also_ ,” She exclaims. “Texting is also a thing, too.”

“I know the inner workings of my phone just fine, Lou.” Derek sniffs.

“Yeah, yeah. Just—let me in the loop of whatever’s going on there with your _‘journey’_.”

Derek can almost taste the air quotation marks in her tone. “I will. I promised. Still, I’m sorry for the past week. I was—”

“You were chicken shit.” She cuts in.

Derek chuckles. “I was chicken shit.” Then he paws at his face, rubbing at the prickly stubble at his chin. “Does this mean I’m still beneath Jones? Because, really Lou? That man is a sorry excuse for a human being.”

“Eh,” Laura hums. “Give it another two more weeks and we’ll see if I’ve changed my mind about that. You’re still not entirely forgiven, mind you.”

Derek gives into the grin creeping up to his lips. It’s barely half past nine at night but he already feel weary, bones weighing with exhaustion. “I missed you too, Lou. I’ll call soon.”

“ _Weekly_ ,” Laura reminds. “And, if you pull this shit again. I swear to Satan’s ass crack that I’ll fly down to California myself and gun you down.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“Jesus,” Laura moans, repulsed and Derek faintly hears over the line face-palming. “One week back in a small town and you’re already spouting military. God knows what type of water they’re forcing you with.”

“I’ll have you know we only drink water from the valley.” Derek tells plaintively, edging on snobbish. Laura finally cracks up, genuine laughter pulling through the line and none of that cynical ones she’s been giving through the entire phone call.

Derek feels infinitesimally lighter.

-

When Derek gets introduced to Scott, it’s through Stiles’ electric enthusiasm.

They’ve just said their farewells to John, who is heading down to the station, and Mrs McCall ( _God, no, hon. Call me Melissa. I’m still young in my thirties to be a missus_ ) who dropped Scott off at Stiles’ place before she starts her shift at the local hospital. She’s a nurse. It’s quite interesting. They made small talk since Derek always was fascinated by the medical line.

When they’re finally left alone on the pavement with Derek the only remaining adult figure in this outing, Stiles takes his cue in efficiently removing the awkward silence. He speaks in a whole other language with his arms, eyes alight with excitement that Derek feels a surge of _fondness_ for the child.

“ _Dur-_ ek,” Stiles exclaims with a start. “This is my boy. Position filled for B.F.F.” He checks his hips against Scott good-naturedly which Scott returns the favour with a weak nudge. It’s cute. “He’s the bubbles to my buttercup. The Shrek to my donkey. The pepperoni to my pizza.”

Derek nods, giving a small smile and goes for a fist bump because those are—relatively _cool._ Yeah, all the kids are going it these days. He’s totally updated in the trends.

Scott looks at it oddly for a second though, cocks his head in a way that reminds Derek of little pups at the pet store behind the display case.

“I’m Derek.” Derek says lamely, retrieving his hand back. There’s nothing worse than being left hanging. Actually, there is, but considering that it was by a ten year old—yeah. Humiliation abound.

“C’mon now, Scottie boy.” Stiles teases, pinching Scott at the cheeks until the boy petulantly bats his hands away with a squawk. “Don’t go all shy on Derek. He’s really cool, and smart! _And!_ Really funny. Like, he’s probably the coolest old person. Ever. Not including Melissa, of course. She’s number _wah._ ”

Scott is still by Stiles’ side though, probably slightly intimidated or simply nervous at meeting someone for the first time. Derek doesn’t fault him. He was a shy child too, hated whenever he was in a room with more heads that aren’t blood relatives.

Stiles elbows him at the ribs, hissing low under his breath, “Say hi. Don’t be rude to _Dur_ -ek.”

“Hi,” Scott finally squeaks out, shuffling closer to Stiles.

Derek laughs softly when Stiles gives an exasperated groan. “Hello.” Then he bends down, one knee on the ground so that they’re all at eye level. “Are you of the same age as Stiles? Classmates, perhaps?”

Scott doesn’t reply, twists his hands into Stiles’ shirt in an attempt to dissipate nerves.

“Yeah, he’s ten too!” Stiles answers for him instead, beaming like being ten years old is _the_ best thing to ever happen to them. It probably is anyway, since they’re finally surpassing the single digit stage. More candles to blow out and what’s not. “We’ve been classmates since first grade. Met him at the sandbox where this guy over here was trying to eat glue on one hand and making sand balls on the other.”

“ _Stiles_.” Scott grits, ducking his head as his cheeks flush. “You promised never to tell that to anyone.”

It should be a knee jerk reaction for Derek; maybe getting him a little turned on since apparently _kids_ do it for him nowadays. Well, two days ago, if we’re being technical. Yet, it’s not. Scott isn’t as—petite as Stiles is. He has an advantage of being a few inches taller, limbs elongated with the slightest of faint muscle tone while his hair is trimmed short and spiky at the top instead of it being darkly, tousled locks.

The pink of his blush doesn’t dot against pale skin either, doesn’t flow prettily down the column of his neck that is littered with freckles and darkened beauty marks.

He’s not… _Stiles._

That— _that_ should be worrying because, _fuck_ but yet, it feels right. It shouldn’t though, since Derek just met the kid like forty-eight hours ago or somewhat less.

“Derek’s not just _anyone_.” Stiles gasps, flummoxed. “He has a beard and promised me movie marathons! Also, did you know that bears don’t eat people’s faces? Yeah, we were totally wrong about that, Scottie. They eat… guess!”

“Um,” Scott hums, frowning a little. “Mac ‘n cheese?”

“No, silly. That’s people food.” Stiles chuckles. “Fish! They eat fishes and Derek knew that!” He continues in an awed tone. Derek does not duck his head trying to hide his grin. “So, he’s not just _anyone._ He’s Derek and he’s our friend! We shall be the three musketeers!”

Scott snuffles, rubbing his nose. “Does he go to our school?”

“Nah,” Stiles chirps. “ _Dur_ -ek’s a big boy and does big boy stuff. Like, _work_.” He scrunches his face. “Like what my dad and your mom do. Gross old people stuff. That’s why he couldn’t meet us yesterday.”

“Hey. I’m not that old.” Derek adds defensively because he’s not. What was that saying? Young at heart? Yeah, that. “I actually finished University three years ago.”

“Nah,” Stiles says cheekily, winking at him. “You’re old because you can drive us to places.”

Derek slumps his shoulders, definitely _not_ pushing his bottom lip out in mock offense.  “Well, if that then I guess I’m just too old to drive you two over to get curly fries, then. Also, I actually considered on a movie after that _but_ ,” He gives a weary sigh. “My bones are aching and tired. Old age does it to you, y’know? I’m just—so, _so_ old.”

Scott looks alarmed now at the prospect of not having greasy finger food and a movie atop of that which he then promptly smack Stiles on the shoulder. “Dude! Look at what you did! You made him sad and now we’re not going to have curly fries and it’s all your fault!”

Stiles whines at the back of his throat, apologetic then goes to out to grab Derek’s hand, shaking it for good measure. “Don’t be sad, _Dur-_ ek. I was just joking. You’re not old! You’re like… Batman! The Dark Knight! That makes you totally awesome and to bring goodness in the world, you need bring the hungry children of Beacon Hills to have curly fries and then movies!”

“Mm,” Derek considers as he pulls a stoic face, wanting to milk this for a little longer since _Stiles_ is _holding_ his hand. “I don’t know. Does that make you the Robin to my Batman, though?”

Stiles grins at him, eyes scrunching up with such carefree happiness that Derek wants to bottle it up and take it out whenever the world seems a little too gray and heavy. “You betcha I am. Sidekick at the ready for your disposal!”

Scott tugs at Stiles’ shirt, trying to garner his attention. “Then what about me? I don’t want to be left out.” He hesitantly looks over at Derek. “Could I be Batman, too?”

Derek chuckles, “We could definitely share the spot. I don’t mind.”

“Cool,” Scott smiles, finally and sidles a few centimetres away from Stiles. “You’re nice.”

Stiles makes a triumphant noise and finally lets go of Derek’s hand which Derek absolutely does not mope about. Even if he does, it’s all internally. “That’s what I’ve been telling you, Scottie! Alright, I’m up for some curly fries. Are you ready to have your world changed, _Dur_ -ek?”

Derek nods and it could be a double standard answer since his world has already tilted off axis two days ago when he first met Stiles.

-

 _This kid will be the death of me_ , Derek thinks.

He struggles for a few minutes but then gives in with another furtive glance over to Stiles because— _because_ Stiles is making these sweet, psychedelic moans that twists silken heat to the low of his gut, spiralling up his spin and then embeds it in the shallow gasps of his existence.

Derek is only human. _He is_ , and his control is piss poor since he’s an able-bodied male with a working penis that suddenly retracted itself to the good old days where he was a hormonal teenage boy—getting hard at even the slightest breeze, then the floodgates of arousal just swims, like a taunt, like an echo in a distance, under his skin.

He can’t be blamed.

If there is blame, it should be on Stiles.

In the past two days, Derek has come to terms that Stiles is a walking, breathing embodiment of virginal vibrancy—of _life._ Fuck’s sake, the kid even _apologized_ to a stray dog when he accidentally tripped over it and then cooed over it for twenty minutes because _“I hurt him, Derek and everyone needs a little kissing on their boo-boos. Even little puppies that don’t have a home.”_

But _this?_ This takes it to a whole new level. It’s an otherworldly level. Derek’s probably in fucking Pluto right now. Yeah. The planet of no return—level. The well, you’re pretty much fucked, Hale and you better be getting ready to have your name listed as a sex offender around this town in the next six months— _level._

Derek wants Stiles—he’s come to terms with it. He does. And _god,_ fuck, does he want him.

Stiles, on the other hand, is completely obtuse to it though. He’s so delightfully, and wonderfully oblivious because he’s ten and the only way to actually garner the attention span from a pre-fucking-teen is with an iPad, or any means of technology really, but it doesn’t stop Stiles from being the worst (and Derek means _the_ worst) cock tease of all in history.

You’d think that greasy fingers and distasteful chewing noises would deter Derek off, or get that semi chub in his jeans (that are way too fucking constricting to even consider popping a boner) to go away but, _nah._ His cock apparently doesn’t get the memo, regardless, because point: Stiles is a fucking cock tease.

He’s _never_ bringing Stiles for curly fries in the future anymore.

(Liar. He would—for science. And by science, he means for his spank bank material.)

Stiles stops munching all of sudden, dark eyelashes fluttering as he looks quizzically at Derek. “Don’t you like them, Derek?” Then point at his untouched serving of fries sitting in the basket. “You haven’t started on yours, and I’m starting to feel like a little pig since I’m almost done with mine.” He adds sheepishly. “Scott, too.”

Derek coughs, flattens a palm over the inseam of his jeans to will his erection away. It doesn’t. If anything, his cock welcomes the pressure.

“Just… enjoying the view.” _Christ._ He wheezes, correcting himself. “I meant the fries! They’re—they look very golden. Yeah.” Derek’s pretty sure that he is the text book definition of flustered at the moment. “Right. Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

He’s so embarrassing. Derek kind of wants to dig a hole, sit in it and then pour meltingly hot cement inside so he could stop feeling like he wants the world to swallow him up, chew him and then spit him out again.

Stiles doesn’t seem to notice his internal struggle (or that his cock _still_ isn’t wilting to get enough blood for common sense and logic to return back to his head), though. He seems quite placated with his almost done basket of fries, beaming at Scott as he continues to stuff a handful of fries back into his mouth, cheeks pushed out comically while he chews around it.

Then— _then_ because life is just _so_ freaking fantastic, Stiles gets barbecue sauce at the corner of his mouth.

It’s not even about hygiene’s sake. Derek could care less since he’s probably taken a shower twice or something since he got here. It’s just so… _distracting._ If his control was bad before, it’s mostly gone to shit now.

Derek can’t stop staring at it, eyes tracking on that little taunting smidge that favours so wonderfully against an oily pair of lips. He wonders if this is how Stiles would look having Derek’s load dribble out from his mouth, thick and goopy, because he can’t contain it all the back of his tongue due to the taste, or the amount.

How sinful if would be if Derek decides to smudge it all over his lips, paints the last weakened blurts of his orgasm across the rosy hue of them.

 _Fucking_ —

 “You’ve got something,” Derek spills with a harsh exhale, fingers digging down to his denim clad thighs. “On your face.”

 “ _Whazat?_ ” Stiles mumbles around his last mouthful of fries.

“I said,” Derek repeats, trying to shallow his laboured breathing because he wants, wants it so much that an ache is pulling low at his groin, behind his balls— _throbbing._ “That you’ve got something. There. At your mouth. Sauce.”

He’s been reduced to speaking in caveman language. If only Laura’s here, she’d be laughing about his sorry ass all the way back to New York while judging him about his life choices.

“Oops,” Stiles giggles, a high and dainty sound that Derek tucks away in the remaining adequate parts of his brain, and then darts his wetted tongue out to try and lick it away. He misses by miles. (Derek thinks all appropriated logic has gone to fatten up his cock since he can’t even comprehend the basic imperial system anymore.)

Stiles is eyeing him, a brow raised questioningly as he continues to poke his tongue out at the edges of his lips, trying with all his might to swipe away that little dab of sauce at the corner while Derek shakes his head whenever he misses.

He’s only human.

Derek’s hand starts to move on its own accord, like in one of those cheesy slow motion ideals in movies or books where he can’t send the right signals to the nerve endings in his arm to _stop._

He wipes it off with this thumb, lingers to swipe a little of moist residue left from Stiles’ tongue and it drums up this heady, peculiar familiarity that somersaults and rattles at the core of his bones. He’s done this once in the quiet of Stiles’ bedroom. Tender fingers ghosting over Stiles’ bottom lip, exploring and carefully memorizing the patterns of freckles and moles against the smooth texture of prepubescent skin.

“Got it.” Derek murmurs, raspy and low that doesn’t sound like him at all.

Then, he goes to do a terrible thing. Yeah, he’s definitely digging his own grave when John finally shanks him with the blunt tip of his baton. (That sounds extremely wrong and sexual but that’s just because his brain and dick is connected to each other at the moment.)

Derek pops his thumb into his mouth, suckles around it until the faint taste of barbecue sauce, sweet and a smidge of salty after bite and a thin layer of finger food grease mould under his tongue. His eyes definitely do not flutter—they don’t.

They… _blinked_ at a pretty rapid pace.

Stiles is staring at him, though, jaw unhinged and innocent dark eyes tracking as Derek finally retracts his thumb out from his mouth. He probably doesn’t even recognize it as a sexual gesture—just something a parent usually would do when they’re trying to give some finishing sprucing for their kid during family gatherings or something.

Scott finally breaks the quiet pull of almost suffocating silence between them with a mutter of disgust, “ _Eww_ , that’s so gross, Derek. Why would you do that?” Then continues on with a scrunch of his nose. “It’s like eating out of his mouth! Like, when a mother bird feeds their young chuckling. Is it called chuckling, Stiles? I forgot.”

“Ducklings?” Stiles tries, finally tearing his gaze away from Scott, wiping his hands against his t-shirt.

“Nah,” Scott quips. “Those are baby ducks. I was thinking of baby birds. _Bird-lings?_ Yeah.” He says, content. “You were being Stiles’ mother bird, Derek, which _, gross._ Because Stiles’ saliva tastes so—so…” He struggles to find the word. “— _gross_.”

Derek dubiously narrows his eyes at him then at Stiles.

“And you would know that because…?”

“We dared each other,” Scott answers brightly and Stiles cackles beside him, snuffling his nose at the back of his hand. “To lick each other’s tongue. It was… not very nice. Stiles’ tongue tasted weird. I still don’t understand kissing because if that was kissing with Stiles, it wasn’t that cool for me to want to do it with girls.”

Derek gapes, a litany of words stuttering at the back of his throat as he searches for something to say but can’t. His mind is racing with Scott and Stiles at the backyard of Stiles’ house, sitting on their knees as they reach out to graze tongues against each other, laughter hiccupping in between bouts of breaths.

He’s not actually _aroused_ by that image even though his cock is twitching weakly—just, _holy shit_ because Stiles has done something with _a boy._ Yeah, sure, even though it’s Scott and shouldn’t matter because best friends are by default not validation in any situations but it _doesn’t_ matter. Stiles’ swapped spit, even though innocently, with a boy.

Because Derek wants to swap spit with Stiles, and not innocently, he might add. The type where it’s filthy and bad wrong until strings of saliva are dribbling down their chin while lewd, wet smacks of lips hovers between the heaviness of their breathy pants—type of not innocently.

“I—” Derek fumbles, cheeks tinting with a shade of heat. “What— _you two?_ ”

“Yep,” Stiles says, popping the ‘p’ at the end. “We were bored and we had mashed potatoes for lunch that made our tongues all fuzzy and weird. So, we were actually bored _and_ curious.” He explains. “We didn’t have you back then, Dur-ek. Life was dull and gray but now you’re letting us live the fabulous life of curly fries and movies. _Aces_ , man.”

“ _Well_ ,” Derek exclaims, letting a loose chuckle slip out. “I am Batman for a reason, y’know.”

Scott then decides to change the topic because apparently the word ‘fabulous’ reminded him of Barbie and then he’s off on a tangent of several Barbie movies his mom made him watch, without him protesting much either.

Derek feels more warmed up to Scott as they leave the diner (update: his dick also finally got the message to deflate the fuck down, thank god) and realizes that Stiles really _is_ mature for a ten year old since he didn’t make fun of Scott for liking _‘girly’_ things. He even encouraged Scott to talk about the nutcracker, or something, in great detail.

He’s so, _so_ truly fucked. Derek can almost hear the heinous cackles that would come from Laura.

-

Stiles props his chin under his palm with a considering expression as he views at the tidbits over the counter stack then turns to Derek, asking, “What do you think I should get, Dur-ek? Dad never lets me get candy whenever we come to the movies but allowed us! Coolest. Adult. _Ever._ But! Now I’m spoilt for choices.” He pouts. “Should I go for the liquorice, popcorn… or ice-cream?”

“Um,” Derek ponders for a second then decides with a shake of his head, a tad too aggressive. “Definitely, uh, not the ice-cream.” He really doesn’t need to pop a boner because Stiles can’t properly figure where his mouth is in the dark while they watch the new Avengers movie.

It’s one thing to get a hard-on while Derek’s at a diner because people can always wave it off as a food boner (it’s totally normal, dudes always get them. He had a classmate in college who popped one whenever they had brownies at the school café) but, having one while the actors on screen are dressed in spandex?

Yeah, too shady. Even for Derek.

Stiles sticks his tongue out, “Why not? They have Ben & Jerry’s!”

“Because…” Derek drawls, wracking his brain for a reasonable white lie. “…because it’s cold in the theatre? And, like, you’re quite small in size. You’d probably get hyperthermia after you finish eating it and Scott probably won’t be able to save you as he wants to finish the movie. You’d be all frozen.”

Stiles makes an alarmed face that Derek feels quite smug about. That, and from the corner of his peripheral, he can see the counter girl stifling a giggle into her palm. “I don’t want to get _he-pe-to-nyeah_! Okay, ice-cream is definitely out.”

Derek makes a quiet, triumph noise.

Stiles elbow nudges Scott at the ribs, “What’re you going to get, Scottie?”

“ _Ehm_ …” Scott drones, mouth slightly ajar as he paws against the glass counter of where all the candies are stacked. “Probably M&M’s? I like the peanut butter ones. Those are the nicest.”

“Then I’ll get liquorice! So we can be candy buddies!” Stiles cheers and then tugs on the sleeve of Derek’s jacket. He foregone the leather because that’s just… a little too much when you’re out with kids, so he’s gone for a maroon zip-up that Laura got for him on sale. “Scott wants the M&M’s and I want liquorice!”

Derek nods, “Do you want soda with it? Or are you guys okay with sharing?”

Scott chimes in, “Sharing is cool.” He smiles, small.

“Alright,” Derek answers, mirroring a grin of his own and then looks over to Stiles who is staring at one of the overhead screens that’s showing a preview of a trailer for some upcoming terrifying gore movie. “Don’t think your dad would like you watching that.” He nudges him softly at the shoulder to hold his attention. “Any favourites for a drink? Coke? Or, do you want another milkshake?”

Stiles groans, patting his stomach. “That vanilla milkshake still isn’t sitting nicely with the fries.”

“You drank it too fast, _Stiles-y_.” Scott tells, smacking his tongue at him. “My mom always says to pace what we’re eating so that we don’t get, uh, a bloaty tummy.”

Stiles pulls a face at him, “And my dad says that to heal a bloaty tummy is to _be_ flatulent. So, I’ll be farting. All up this business.” He points to his behind then glances over at Derek with an amused huff. “You don’t mind that, do you, _Dur_ -ek?”

This is the kid that he wants to ultimately ruin—this is Derek’s _life_ now. Talking about farts in the Cineplex with two prepubescent boys.

“Nah, totally cool with me.” Derek shrugs noncommittally and the counter girl doesn’t even have the decency to hide her laughter this time, cooing at the two boys as she asks what they would like to get.

-

Derek takes the seat at the far corner so that he’s not separating the both of them by wedging himself in the middle but Stiles ushers to the seat beside him anyway, so. He doesn’t sulk for too long, anyway. Probably for a quick second when he watches the awkward shuffle Scott and Stiles does when they try to take the middle seat at the same time until Stiles pulls out the pouting card, whining that he hates the stairs seat.

“Afraid that the bogeyman’s going to find you if you take corner seats, Stiles?” Derek teases, watching the dim casting shadows play out on the rounded planes of Stiles’ face.

Stiles punches him on the shoulder, too light for the impact to seep under skin. “Go away, you’re being mean.”

“Aw,” Derek coos. “Little baby boy.”

“I’m a _big boy_ , not little.” Stiles huffs then uses his teeth to pronouncedly tear away the wrapper off his liquorice candy with a grunt. “See, I’m like a bear and this is my fishy food. _Rawrrr_ , nom nom nom.” Then swings the long piece of liquorice in his mouth, mock growling as he chews.

Derek wishes that the theatre lights aren’t already pulling dark because he really wants to whip his phone out to take a picture and save it. Maybe set it as his wallpaper. Or, send it to Laura as a memento, _or_ as physical evidence for his tribulations to self-actualization. What? It’s—something. At least it’s not completely bullshit.

Stiles has spurred a lot of deep self-issues that he has been ignoring thus far, so it’s not _that_ far off. Derek is a layered man, with many issues that needs working. Like, how he hates changing toothbrushes every three months. He doesn’t get it either because if the bristles aren’t completely ruined, why change?

So, _yes._ Self-actualization.

 Derek’s come to terms that he likes a kid, that he wants to do horrible, _horrible_ things to one (one that is chewing his liquorice obscenely loud beside him and moves like he’s performing the rain dance) and that he hates changing toothbrushes thus will not succumb to society’s measly requirements to it.

He’ll fucking use his toothbrush until it grows mouldy and could probably make fungi soup or something.

See, there’s _progress._

-

The movie is about half an hour in and Derek’s not even being _subtle_ anymore. His arm is taking up more space than the basic etiquette of armrest sharing have implemented. It reminds him of one of those few first dates he had taken to the movies and the stirring urge to hold their hand until their palms become cold and clammy.

Stiles obviously doesn’t get it. Instead, he whispers in low voices to Scott whenever Ironman (Stiles’ favourite) or Captain America (who is Scott’s favourite) appears on the screen. So Derek sips on the soda he’s sharing with Stiles and pushes his arm out another inch.

The other thing that Derek notices about Stiles is that he fidgets a lot, even when he’s seating down. He twists in his chair, props his legs up onto the front seat but then makes a reluctant, chafed noise when they keep slipping off since his legs are too short to actually garner comfort in that position.

It’s like his entire body thrums with nervous energy until it buzzes off his skin, crackling in the still air of the theatre. It’s making Derek restless from how twitchy Stiles is and _really_ , he’s just being a good patron by doing this.

Also, somewhere between a minute ago and now, he found some balls under his seat.

Derek hooks his little finger around Stiles’ pinkie and just— _holds_ it there. Doesn’t let go but doesn’t put too much pressure around it either. Just lets the comfort of having Stiles’ small, fattened finger around his build inside him.

Stiles makes a confused hitch of breath, looking up at him through his eyelashes. He slides closer; murmurs into Derek’s ear that he manages to catch the faint wafts of cranberries and barbecue sauce under his breath. “You okay, _Dur_ -ek?”

Derek looks at their fingers entwined with each other and is resigned to the fact that if he gets caught in this theatre by a busker, well—at least he got to semi-hold Stiles’ hand. He’s just doing a good deed, really. Derek could definitely plead that when he’s at the stand being prosecuted.

“I’m good,” Derek answers, tightening his little finger around Stiles. “You?”

Stiles beams and Derek thinks something inside of him shatters, “Just fabulous.” Then shakes the packet of liquorice on his other hand. “Want one?”

Derek _may_ have nodded his head and then allowed Stiles to slide one into his mouth because he’s slyly holding onto the soda cup with his supposedly free hand. He also _may_ have purposely grazed the tip of his tongue against the bottom of Stiles’ finger, tasting flesh salts and the sweet bite of artificial flavouring on it.

He’d deny all of it if he had to go up on the stand, though. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P/s: Heavily un-edited at the end.

It’s been two weeks and a little since Derek left New York and headed back over to sunny side California. It’s still a little baffling that he gets to wake up to birds chirping away at the window ledge instead of patrol sirens screeching bloody murder from four blocks away.

The change of environment is very much welcomed, though. Not only does he feel safe, without flashing blue and red lights overcasting in his bedroom but he also gets to have a good night’s rest.

The adjustment, or lack thereof home sickness, is also very becoming.

Laura starts calling him on every alternate day, or texts him at weird hours of the day about meander things about the city. There was one hilarious incident dated a few days back where her messages were a slur of cap locks.

 **(08:21)**  
I HYST SAW A HOBO’S PENIS?

Twenty seconds later.

 **(08:21)**  
NOPE. IT’S A URINATING PENIS. OH GOD, WHY. DEE.

A minute later.

 **(08:22)**  
Oh god. My eyes. My *nose hairs* I need bleach. Stat. The industrial type.

Derek returned her texts with something simple, but still snide.

**(08:34)**  
 _Well. It’s your fault that you were staring in the first place. Maybe he felt cornered? Homeless people have feelings too, Lou._

He’s the best brother one can have, if he say so himself.

Laura returns with a classic,

 **(08:35)**  
Fuck off.

Derek is also decidedly against calling his mother up. He’d rather let Laura deal with her. It _was_ her fault that Talia was even dragged into such petty matters. Yeah, filiality is not his middle name.

It’s not that he doesn’t miss her, or not have a care towards her. He does. There’s still a faint scent of her perfume lingering on the walls of their family home, almost burrowed into the shallow creases like sharpie fumes during arts and crafts class.

They just… have an unconventional relationship.

By unconventional, Derek means that he still holds a little bitterness when his mother closed herself off from Laura and him after his dad left when he turned fourteen. It was as though looking at the both of them (maybe more of Derek, but that’s mostly the animosity speaking), or being in an enclosed space with them for long period of time reminded her too much of Charles that she just… couldn’t _deal_.

Hence, escape route. _New York_ —until two weeks ago, of course.

So, yes, Derek would rather Laura deal with her.

He’s finally feeling well adjusted in Beacon Hills, in their family home (he’s not going to say it’s a mansion, even though it is, because that makes it seem a lot larger than it already is) and he has a good daily system going on for him.

In the mornings, he takes a good hour hike or run around the preserve _with_ an updated iPod. He even has Beyoncé’s new album on it too. Derek is totally with the in-crowd now. He’d probably even go against the status quo of what’s cool and actually purchase One Direction’s album off iTunes, too. That’s how _in_ he is.

If only Laura could see him now.

For breakfast, he either settles down with a simple bacon and toast, or he drives down to Susan’s diner for his usual. He doesn’t even care if Susan is on first name terms with him now. Derek prefers it, actually, likes it even. He even greets her husband, Michael, whenever he’s lounging around in the back, flipping through the daily paper.

They even spoke about NBA for a little the other day.

After that, Derek either hangs out with Stiles and Scott until it’s time for dinner, or he has to go do grown up thingies. (Stiles’ words.)

Today’s a Thursday and Derek’s awake a lot earlier than the alarm that he usually set to go off at six in the morning. He’s lying on the flat of his bed, foam bed already moulded to the warm dip of his sleep wasted body, and he’s pitching some suggestive morning wood under the thin of his boxers.

To think of it, Derek hasn’t rubbed one out since he moved out here. He’s been overwhelmed by feeling acquainted to this town again, finding out his old favourite stores have been replaced by new ones, or purchasing the necessities he needs since he decided to up and leave on an irrational head (clothes, groceries, and not forgetting, paying the damn backed up electricity bills.

He’s also been pretty busy with Stiles, but that’s not really a chore. It’s more like the slowest of torture that he wills on himself.

Derek’s pretty certain that he’s been dealing with a stiffy more times than he can count with both hands and it’s beginning to feel like he has a permanent hard on for the past fortnight. So, when he finally trails a hand down under the duvet, ghosting past warm skin at the edge of the waistband to palm at the head of his cock, his hip arches off the bed and into the fleeting touch.

His mind is scarily silent, bare of any fantasies to actually start pulling one off. Derek usually has go-to materials whenever he jerks off, but—that’s before Stiles.

Before he knows how long and thick Stiles’ eyelashes are when they are batting at him, a litany of whining pleads for one last cookie. (“It’ll be the last one. I promise, Derek. It can be out little secret. No telling dad, okay?”) Or when Stiles makes this soft, whispery sigh and his chest collapses in content whenever Derek scratches blunt nails into his scalp. Sometimes he tugs a small handful of hair just for Stiles to groan into the touch, body sidling closer.

Now, inside the blacks of his eyelids, all Derek pictures is Stiles. And, it’s wrong because Stiles _is_ tangible. He’s _real_ while before— _before Stiles_ , they were just faceless teenagers. A flesh dusted asshole with little to no pubic hair that belongs to a shadow overcast face, or high, keening noises that Derek re-uses from hurried fucks at dinky bars.

However, his cock is a far lesser entity than his conscience is.

It twitches, _throbs_ , when Derek is being reminded that Stiles has adolescent fattened limbs and even thicker, stunted fingers that look absolutely miniscule in Derek’s palm. It’s the constant, blatant reminder that Stiles is the epitome of _youth._ Of a _child_. With his small bulging stomach that probably would stretch out to lean muscles when puberty starts while his grown out shirts does nothing to conceal the soft curves clinging to his hips.

Fuck—and that, that makes his dick blurts pre-come at the crease of his thigh. Derek clenches his eyes tighter, wills the hazy images behind the darkness of his eyes to fuck off.

To say it’s unsuccessful would be an understatement.

Derek’s breaths begin to labour, pulling like raspy groans in the still of early dawn. His knuckles tightens, whitens, as he grips onto the sheets, all the while fighting the urge to thrust up into the tight confines of his boxers.

It’s one thing to be attracted to a kid (yeah, Derek’s sailed past denial), to know that he wants to wet his cock in between those pale, meaty thighs but it’s a whole other thing to actually go through with it.

There’s a line and Derek has been _so_ good to not cross it. He’s not goddamn Robin Thicke. Derek understands that the blurring of said lines is _not_ acceptable—there _is_ one for a reason. But then those hot, vivid images of Stiles at the diner pops up, the memory still leaving him taut and hot under his skin.

Derek’s tongue still tasted faintly of barbecue sauce and cranberries long after he dropped the both of them back home.

He’s only fucking human.

Derek thrusts up and groans when the swollen cockhead catches against the small slit of his boxers, feeling the way his foreskin retracts a little with each heave of his hips. He’s already leaking profusely. There’s probably a wet spot at the front mocking his entire existence, too.

It’s like after he consciously takes that first leap, his mind catches up and it’s an instant descent to hell.

Derek thinks of how Stiles’ tiny, flaccid prick would fit in his hand. It’d probably be soft and clammy with boy sweat, the way Derek remembers how his own dick felt like when he was ten and curious, scraping at the beginning edges of puberty. Maybe Stiles might be confused while Derek touches him intimately for the first time, breath hitching as he slurs out question after question until he’s absolutely breathless.

Such an inquisitive boy Stiles is—his little boy.

Derek muffles a groan into his pillow, the coils of arousal already heating fiery warmth at the pool of his abdomen and behind his balls. Stiles’ testicles would be small, too, (for such a petite boy) and it’d be tucked so prettily under his pink dick with barely there wrinkle creases running at the middle.

He’d mouth at them, _god_ —Derek would. Have them rolling against the flat of his tongue as he licks away body wash and flesh salts until there’s only the pummel of Stiles’ rapid heartbeat fluttering in the hollow of his mouth. He’s sure that Stiles would taste like summer, like coy tinges of melted caramel, and heat, and the ocean.

Stiles would also make the sweetest of noises, falling like grace, like sun, and they’d be unlike the other teenage boys Derek has ever pulled—he would. It’d be in a litany of rambles that cuts off with choked grunts of Derek’s name. His tone a slurred mess of confusion but also heady curiosity and undisguised need for more and Derek—he would give whatever Stiles wants.

Derek would, and he’d never willingly take a smidge back, because Stiles is the worthiest of prizes. He’s the gift by itself, so sacred, and tender, and breakable as he burgeons into unlearned intimacy. Derek would only guide him, teach him of each sensuous stroke and carnal pleasure to be derived from his small body—leaving him sweaty, and pliant, and sated.

It’s that image—the final one with Stiles fucked out, pulling breaths while his cheeks are tinted with the pinkest of flush that do it for him.

Derek arches off the bed, cock hardening into a thick line of unyielding pressure while his balls draw up and then he starts to spurt his orgasm into his boxers, exhaling Stiles’ name hoarsely with a groan.

“Fuck, fuck— _fuck, Stiles_.”

Derek tugs at his shaft, riding out the final few throbs and easing the last few dribbles of come as it soaks through the thin fabric of his boxers.

Yeah, Derek’s probably not a better man than Robin Thicke.

-

The next day, Derek drops by the Stilinski’s place for dinner because John insisted the previous day.

( _“C’mon, Hale. Ease up and let us feed you. Or, just take it as a thank you meal since you’re keeping my menace of a son in order. God knows how much therapy I’ve to foot for the deputies down at the station.”_

_“Liar. Don’t listen to him, Derek. Dad loves me. He does, really, really.”_

_“Yeah, whatever makes you sleep, kid.”_ )

Derek isn’t able to meet Stiles’ eyes for the first hour because if he does, all he’d see is that faint imagery of Stiles panting and sweaty, saliva cooling and drying at his thighs and yeah, that’s definitely not high on the cool or appropriate list. He doesn’t need to pop a boner while they’re seated at the dining table with Stiles’ father sitting across him.

It’s only when they move over to the couch, dishes already dry and stacked, that Stiles finally digs his toes painfully into Derek’s ribs to snatch his attention away. Derek makes a mocked, pained noise, pressing a soothing hand over the dull throb.

“Quit ignoring me, you—you _poop_.” Stiles hisses and pinches the thin skin of Derek’s elbow.

“I’m not—”

“Scott may not be a good liar but, right now? You’re much worse than him.” Stiles snips haughtily, glaring at Derek.

“It wasn’t on purpose.” Derek murmurs, apologetic because yeah, he _was_ subtly avoiding Stiles’ attention since he got here. But! On good reasoning—which he can’t mention aloud because, see: Paedophile and a man of the law just ten feet away from him. “I’m sorry. Just… got a lot on my mind, that’s all.”

Stiles shuffles closer to him, jutting his legs off the couch but because he’s so small, it dangles above the ground. These aren’t things Derek should be aware of but, fuck, has he mentioned how tiny Stiles is?

“It’s—I didn’t do anything wrong, did I?”

There’s a gentle quiver at the end of his note and it digs a lot like guilt in Derek’s gut because it sounds so wrong on him and Derek’s the one that did that. Stiles is the one that lifts everyone’s spirits with his chirpy mirth and relentless charm but to hear that doubt in his tone, to know that he’s too much for someone he cares about—that Derek can’t stomach it.

“No,” Derek says quickly and his hand itches like fire to snatch Stiles’ hand into his, to translate how badly he feels. “It’s not—you didn’t do anything wrong. I promise. It’s just me. I’m being weird, m’ sorry.”

Stiles looks at him calculatedly, “Is it because I forced you to give me one more cookie yesterday and you feel bad about it? Because, I swear, Scott won’t tell and I won’t, either.”

Derek huffs dryly, “That’s not it, Stiles.”

“Then, what is it?” He persists, almost whining.

“I just—” Derek sighs, scratching at his jaw. He doesn’t know how to put it into words that a ten year old would understand and so that John wouldn’t get the wrong idea if he accidentally overhears their conversation. Not that his blasé assumptions would be incorrect.

He's fucking playing with fire, that’s what he is.

“Maybe…” Derek starts, weighing his words. “Maybe, I’m not cut out to be Batman, after all.”

Stiles gapes at him, “But you make the perfect Batman!” and he sounds so honest, so _fierce_ , like the first time they met in the grocery store and Stiles was puffing up, all ready to punch him in the shin to make him understand that clouds are _more_ than alright.

“Batman doesn’t do bad things,” Derek offers kindly and pats him on the knee because he can’t resist not ever touching Stiles. “He doesn’t think of doing bad things, either. But, I do.”

Stiles blinks, “You want to do bad things, _Dur_ -ek?”

Derek laughs softly since his nickname sounds so out of place in this conversation. “Yes, Stiles. I want to do bad things.”

“Like… bad, as in, _Joker-_ bad?”

“Yeah. Exactly like him.”

Stiles hums, thinks about it for a second before a smile creeps up at him, “That’s alright. Joker’s pretty awesome, too. _Oh!_ ” He chimes loudly, “That way, _I_ could be Batman and try to save you.”

And how right Stiles is since he _is_ Derek’s saving grace—oh, the fucking irony.

“Yeah?” Derek smiles down at him and pushes away the wispy hair covering Stiles’ eyes before he recoils his hand like he’s been burnt when he hears John yelling something muffled to change the channel.

 “Yeah,” Stiles breathes, eyes lighting up. “Man, if Scott knows that I’m Batman now too, he’d be giving me his sad, puppy face all week! Can I tell Scott that you’re the Joker now?”

Derek thinks about it, “Maybe just like the cookie, we could keep it as our little secret for now?”

Stiles enthusiastically mimes zipping his lips, “It’s like this never happened.”

“Aw, Stiles,” John groans pitifully as he walks into the living hall. “Not this show again.”

“What!” Stiles argues, shoving the remote control under his butt so that John, or Derek, can’t have access to it. Well, it’s not like it’d be much of an effort to lift him up and steal it away, or sneaking a hand under and—yeah, no. But, Derek is amused of how a ten year old’s mind works. “Nemo is a classic, okay, dad? And, it makes me happy because if I ever get lost, like Nemo, I have you and Derek to come find me! Like, you could be Dory while Derek is Nemo’s dad.”

John quirks a brow at him, not appeased but not offended. “I’m your dad, shouldn’t I play Nemo’s dad?”

“Nah,” Stiles grins cheekily, eyes squinting with delight. “Derek is so much cooler than you. We are like, best friends.”

John shakes his head, not completely getting Stiles’ logic then looks over to Derek, “Sometimes I wonder if I accidentally put too much crazy in his food.”

“Hey!” Stiles protests. “Son is still in the room and has ears to listen to your insults.”

Derek presses a chuckle into his palm and then finally settles with ease beside Stiles on the two seater couch, memory of the morning finally flitting away with each new joke that Stiles conspires or random spout of commentary he makes.

-

The one distinct difference that Derek notices between California and New York in the last few weeks (no, not that Cali has Stiles, he’s not _that_ type of creepy) is that time passes relatively slower, especially since he’s not caught up in the buzz of the city.

Instead of spending time shuffling around the packed chaos of subway stations, losing precious minutes of the day to rude strangers and idle buskers, Derek manages to drive out Talia’s old Subaru that’s locked up in the garage without much traffic hindrance.

Also, the afternoons are a lot longer even though the sun sets as early as six in the evening, but it’s less humid than in New York. Derek’s pretty pleased with that. It’s one thing to have plenty of photography porn of skyscrapers but when you’re caged in with them, one at every direction—it gets pretty stifling and hot.

It’s the first week of August, temperature making a slight dip from its usual heat, and Derek can admit that he’s been spending most of last month with Stiles and Scott. Yeah, after the whole jerk off thing, Derek tries not to spend too much time alone with just Stiles—it’s better, safer. He has control, okay?

Regardless, Derek already feels that pull of attachment towards the kid (and maybe a little on Scott, hey, he grows on you) and hates that he’s rivalling against time before summer break eventually ends, stealing his boy away with mundane school activities.

It’s like a summer fling—without the fucking, or romance, or _anything_ , really.

Fuck his life.

He tries to make the best of it whenever they meet, though, and not think of the curfew that John set out after Derek accidentally let slip of the time and brought both boys back at nine in the night with grass stained knees and plenty of elbow bruises. Yeah, that was a funny situation to explain—with a lot of _um’s_ and _ah’s_ before John said it was fine _but next time, it’s seven on the dot, yeah?_

The reason he was late was because Derek brought them out to a small park, located just right outside of town. He discovered it while he drove around doing a couple of errands and realized that it was a great spot—deserted, plenty of lush fields and not many over towering trees to get banged up in.

For the past few days, Scott has been spilling a lot of talk about the skateboarding classes down at the beach. Apparently, it’s some new hype during this summer for the kids their age. However, Melissa doesn’t agree with said lessons because, well, mothers will be overprotective bears. Derek understands his gruelling, pre-teen pain—Talia was a pesky mom until, uh, she wasn’t.

That and he lived with Laura for all his life and his sister chased bullies away even when they were in University, mind you.

So, Derek buys two skateboards, doesn’t even flinch about the cost when it piled on his credit card. He even went ahead and bought all the protective gear along with it. The reaction that Stiles gives him made the two hundred bucks spent seem almost painless.

“ _Oh my god!_ Scott, look!” Stiles then proceeded to fling his body around Derek’s legs, mauling at his legs as he squealed. “You’re the best, _Dur_ -ek. Okay, this does it. From this day onwards, I will share _all_ curly fries with you. _Forever._ We are now lifetime bros. Forget Scott. You are now on BFF replacement duty.”

“But we made a pact!” Scott cries out and bats Stiles’ arms away from where it’s wrapped around Derek’s torso like a fucking koala bear. “Shoo, you best friend stealer!”

Derek clears his throat, bats his eyes innocently at Scott. “There are batman designs on your skateboard deck.”

“ _Oh?_ ” Scott says and then flips his skateboard over, eyes glazing over. He makes a noise of acceptance. “Alright, fine. Good trade. But, just for a day! Me and Stiles are _still_ best bros.” Then returns his attention towards the deck, running fingers over the customized logo. “This is so cool, though. Jackson will be totally jealous of our boards, Stiles. Ha! Take that!”

“Do you like yours?” Derek asks softly, peering down at Stiles who still is clinging onto him.

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes, pressing a cheek against the fabric of Derek’s shirt, almost like he’s nuzzling him. He looks up, “Thanks for the skateboards. You’re, like, the coolest. Dad’s gonna flip when he finds out, though. Melissa, too.”

Derek grins, tucking the few stray strands of Stiles’ hair behind his ear. “Life’s no fun unless you’re living dangerously. Heed my words, Batman.”

Stiles smiles up at him and a shiver runs up like pools of tender heat up his spine. Derek feels momentarily blinded by it, like free fall, pretty certain that the sun lives within, existing in Stiles’ very young soul.

Derek then spends almost the entire afternoon trying to teach them how to properly balance on their boards, laments continuously at Stiles to put most of his weight at the center instead of the back.

Stiles cross his arms in a maddened stance, annoyed by his poor attempts. “Well, if you’re so good at it, why don’t you just show us, Mr. Put-Your-Leg-Here-Not-There.”

Derek tilts his chin up, feeling the antsy bite of a challenge brewing at his fingertips. “Sure. Hey, Scott?” Scott whips his head up at him from where he’s adjusting his knee pads. “Pick Stiles’ jaw up later, yeah?”

“What?” Scott asks, confused. “Why?”

Derek doesn’t even bother to answer him. Just goes ahead to pick Stiles’ boards where it’s lying pathetically haphazardly on the ground with a technique flip he learned from the playground when he was thirteen, playing it aloof when the board is right side up on the ground. Then, he plants his feet meekly, adjusting his stance so that both of his oversized feet would fit on the length of the board. It’s a lot smaller since Derek got the child sized skateboards, but whatever. It does the trick anyway.

He kick starts the board and then proceeds to glide circles around Stiles, who doesn’t seem all pleased at all, blowing a miffed breath out. Derek throws in a few easy ollies and then tosses a smug as shit grin whenever he lands it.

Stiles pokes his tongue out, jabbing at Scott’s ribs, mouthing, “Show off.”

It’s dark out when Scott finally manages to go a few inches without falling off and the both of them are sweaty, smidges of dirt evident at their temples where they probably wiped the sweat off with their hands. The two hundred bucks spent? Totally worth it since he spent the last few hours gripping onto Stiles’ hand as he wobbles around the board.

That and it’s also quite life changing to watch Stiles fall on his ass and then witness him pat his behind with a tender grimace.

-

Derek is an adult. He is. The bags under his eyes, three day old scruff at the jaw and a built body he’s honed throughout the years can attest to that. It doesn’t explain why he follows through with Stiles’ brilliant, (brilliantly stupid) idea for an eating contest.

He’s whipped, that’s what he is. Straight out from the can.

It goes a little like this:

Stiles: _Deeeerek_ , (in a sickeningly, whiny tone), I’m bored. Entertain me.  
Derek: Do I look like a clown to you? Move over, you’re taking up the entire couch.  
Stiles: Boo. You’re no fun. And, to think of it, you do have clown feet.  
Derek: I do not. You just have baby feet. I’m sure if you were any tinier, I’d have to feed you with a bottle.  
Stiles: M’ not tiny! I’m a big boy and I’ve been growing, okay!  
Derek: Says who?  
Stiles: Says the wall. I’ve been measuring myself against it since I was five. Scott has one too at his house, too. Right, Scott?  
Scott: Right.  
Stiles: See! And I’ve grown like by… _this_ much since summer started. Ha!  
Derek: Good for you. Still small to me, though.  
Stiles: Go away. You clown feet old person. Scottie! My bestest best friend. I’m bored and Derek’s being a big ol’ smelly poop.  
Derek: I don’t smell.  
Stiles: You stink of perfume.  
Derek: I don’t wear perfume, Stiles.  
Stiles: Well, you smell weird and I’m bored. So, go away. You’re being mean to me today.  
Derek: (aggressively rolls eyes while sighing) Fine. I’m sorry I was being mean to you. What would you like to do today, Stiles?  
Stiles: Um… Uh… Ah…  
Scott: We could go skateboarding?  
Stiles: My butt still hurts from yesterday and it was your idea to do a flip. I was not ready at all.  
Scott: Fine. I don’t know.  
Derek: We could go have lunch? It’s almost one, anyway.  
Stiles: Yes! You’re so smart! We could have a eating contest! A hotdog eating contest! Or nuggets! Oh my god, Derek, could we have McDonald’s nuggets, please? Please? We’ve been so good, please?  
Derek: (moans internally)

That was an hour ago but now they’re back at the Stilinski’s place after they made a quick trip to McDonald’s, returning with six boxes of twenty piece nuggets, a kid’s happy meal because Scott wanted the damn toy and two chocolate ice cream sundae.

There’s also a variety of condiments at the bottom of the paper bag that Derek doesn’t even _know_ existed before today.

Stiles hustles towards the living hall, crowding on his knees around the tea table as he sets out the nuggets properly all while issuing orders around. Scott moans that why can’t they just do it in the kitchen and with a glass of apple juice at the side.

“It’s a contest, dummy.” Stiles answers with a bite of snide. He’s probably been spending too much time with Derek that he’s picking up that little quirk.

Stiles starts to argue with Derek then, that they should have a time limit to finish off all forty nuggets even though Derek objects to it.

“It’s just for fun.” Derek persists.

“But!” Stiles protests. “ _Still_ , there should be a winner. Where’s the fun of an eating contest when there aren’t any winners?”

Derek begrudgingly sets a timer for fifteen minutes on his iPhone, muttering under his breath about how he didn’t’ sign up for this. He didn’t sign up for _anything_. All he wanted was to go get groceries—not be plummeted into a life of light laughter, or toffee tousled hair that needs a haircut, and a boy’s earnest vibrancy of everything alive.

Stiles is oblivious to his internal weeping and stares him down with a smug look while counting them down.

Scott and Stiles start off strong. They pile as many nuggets as they can fit into their mouths while chewing obnoxiously loud at Derek’s face that follows with wet, muffled giggles escaping them with each bite. Kids, he thinks (with some endearing fondness, damn it), they don’t even know how to play this properly. Everyone knows that you don’t stuff your face in the first five minutes.

It’s like the golden rule—the first commandment of eating contests.

 _‘Thou shall not stuff food quickly into thy mouth’_ or something pretentious like that.

It’s not even five minutes later when a pained groan springs up from Scott, a revolting grimace clear on his face as he continues to look at his nuggets.

“I th’nk ‘m g’na explode.” Scott slurs, a thin sheen of sweat already collecting at his forehead. Meat sweat, Derek thinks.

Stiles is still relentless in his process of chew, chew, chew, stuff mouth with handful of nuggets, chew, chew, chew and then darting to look at Derek with a shit eating grin. Repeat cycle. Although he’s slowing down quite a bit, he’s not giving in yet like Scott and Derek is quite amazed by him while he meticulously chews each individual nugget with several bites before he swallows.

Heh, _swallow._

Derek promptly chokes on a gulp and Stiles doesn’t miss a beat, quickly laughing at his demise with a finger pointing at him. Scott, too. Idiots, the both of them. He scowls and goes to pick up another nugget from the box, chewing with all the loathing he can elicit.

“Give up, _Dur_ -ek,” Stiles garbles in between mouthfuls, bits of food flying out from his mouth. It should be disgusting— _it should_ , but Derek is so far from revulsion. Stiles is such a _boy_ and Derek wants to coo about it or tease the hell out of him about it. “Y’re never g’na win!”

Derek pops another curry sauce open, “Scott, do you hear something? Because I can’t over the sounds of me winning.”

Scott waves a hand limpidly then moans pitifully with the jostle of movement, “Go away. Don’t disturb me. I’m trying to not puke all over the carpet.”

When Derek’s phone finally rings, shrill and sharp, Stiles collapses face first onto the tea table, body slumping forward while lets out a meek, low groan that sounds two thirds pained and one third why-did-I-think-this-was-a-good-idea.

“This was not a good idea.” Stiles gripes, voice muffled against his arm.

Derek shrugs.

He’s feeling pretty okay even though he’s polished off almost all of the box contents, only leaving a small handful of nuggets. Derek wins, of course, considering that he has a bigger appetite than these boys and Stiles was only starting on the second box of nuggets a minute before the timer went off.

At least he’s a gracious winner. Derek’s certain that if Stiles won, he’d be doing cartwheels and then rubbing it in both his and Scott’s face for the entire afternoon.

“ _Scottie_ ,” Stiles mewls, lifting his head when Scott isn’t answering. He’s actually asleep, mouth gaped open and drool collecting at the corner of his mouth. “I think we’ve lost him.”

 _My boy’s tougher than you_ , Derek thinks proudly and then hastens to correct himself because Stiles is not his boy—or _anybody’s_ boy, really. Except John’s, because, yeah.

“Derek,” Stiles whimpers heavily and tries to lift himself up onto the two seater couch with him but fails horribly. Derek is a good samaritan so he helps him, goes to tuck his hands under Stiles’ armpits to lift him up until Stiles flops  limply against him. “Okay, all this moving around wasn’t a good idea either. But, the couch is a lot comfier than the floor. My knees were starting to hurt.”

Derek blows a weak noise through his nose. He’s been so distracted with the idea of an eating contest that he didn’t even realize Stiles was on his knees for the past fifteen minutes. That fuelling could have gone into his spank bank— _no_. Samaritan. No jerking off to Stiles.

Ah, fuck it.

“And I’m the old one?”

“Quiet, you.” Stiles huffs and pushes away the hair that’s going into his eyes. “Also, promise me that you’ll never agree to anything I suggest next time.

Derek chuckles at that. “You’ve only got yourself to blame. Advice? Don’t eat too fast next time.”

“Blah, you and your _old_ people nagging.” Stiles listlessly swats a hand at the direction of his face. He groans, “Ugh, how can nuggets taste so good—like food from the gods, but hurt so badly? Oh my god, _Dur_ -ek, everywhere _hurts_.”

Derek is always aware of his surroundings whenever he and Stiles are in small quarters. Either to not look at him for too long, or linger a touch, or even sparse a quick-witted reply that may be leaning onto flirty because—because _that_ would get him into trouble. And, sure, he’s already teasing with the wildest of forest fires but, he can’t—can’t fucking deny Stiles anything.

He’d probably climb up a tree and then do a back flip down if Stiles wanted him to do it.

However, now that Scott’s quiet on the armchair, breath wheezing with his inhaler clutched firmly in his hand that’s pressed against his chest, Derek finally gets the opportunity to look at Stiles. And what a sight it truly is.

Stiles’ usually pale skin is flushed, pink all over until it dips, hidden under the collar of his shirt, probably trailing all the way down to below his balls. His stomach is bulging out, even more so than usual, extended from how full he is—and _god_ , Derek’s control is waning with each minuscule slip of a second.

“Is there—” Derek pauses, tongue heavy and fuzzy. He shouldn’t, he _can’t_ , but— “Do you want me to make it a little better? Something my mom used to do whenever I get a tummy ache?”

“ _Please_ ,” Stiles blubbers, voice almost quivering as he goes to twine his arm around Derek’s, closing the small gap between them on the couch.

Derek knows Stiles is a small kid—it’s that one thing that’s always at the forefront of his mind but when they’re slotted like these, elbow to elbow, the comparison is blatantly obvious. He’s so… tiny beside Derek. His thighs alone are twice the size of Stiles and whereas his arms are crawling with deep set veins from lifting weights, all faint blues and greens, Stiles has a collection of chub at the wrist, littered with long scratched scabs and moles against the daintiest of fair skin.

“C’mere,” Derek mutters, quietly, exacting.

He’s afraid that he gets too loud, it may shatter the moment. That John would suddenly rush through the front door with deputies at his side and firearms locked onto him—well, baton. Derek’s a risk taker when it comes to Stiles, but not _that_ kind of risk.

Stiles sidles even closer until he has one thigh hitched against Derek’s own, body warmth radiating through the fabric of his clothes. Maybe that’s why the devil exists—to coyly dangle the sweetest of sin in front of Derek until he absolutely loses his goddamn mind. And that’s what Stiles is—a sin, but yet wrapped in the purest of morality.

Derek curls a hand around Stiles’ waist, not really hoisting him even nearer (if that’s even possible) but just to have an anchor on him. To grapple at his sanity because this—this is different. This isn’t just one of his mind’s actively imagined scenarios; this is something that would completely change the both of them.

He peeks a hand under his shirt, eyes seeking out to Stiles’ if he’s okay with this—if not, he’ll stop. He’s not—he’s _not_ one of the bad guys. Sure, he’s not Batman but he’s not exactly the Joker either.

Derek just wants Stiles, in any way, but in the books of the law and in society, it’s _bad._ Because touching a child like this is abuse—it’s the unveiling of innocence, stripping them from their naivety but, that’s not what Derek’s intends. He never could abuse a boy like Stiles—never.

Instead, he presses soothing touches, rubbing tender circles onto Stiles’ pudgy belly until he feels the tension slowly leaving the boy. Derek palms at the low of his stomach, massaging and hopes that if he does get caught—that the stains of his fingerprints are seen as non-abusive, but caring— _loving._

“Feels nice,” Stiles murmurs, chest rumbling. “You’ve got really big hands.”

“Yeah?” Derek breathes. He knows this situation doesn’t call for anything sexual but yet his cock twitches in his jeans, chubs up like he’s mocking all on what Derek believes. “Better?”

“A lot better,” Stiles answers softly and smiles up at him. Derek pulls him closer, nuzzles into his hair. “You’ve got the magic touch.” Then, giggles like he’s just made the best joke ever.

“Mm,” Derek agrees, heart doing silly flips and flops because Stiles scrunching his nose and bright eyes crinkling is something that is not for the faint hearted. “Didn’t you know? Harry Potter’s got nothing on me.”

Scott promptly breaks the moment with a muted groan, slurring as he awakens. “I th’nk ‘m g’na be sick.” And then promptly throws up into one of the empty McDonald’s paper bags, filling the room with gagging noises.

It’s good, though because if not, the semi that’s going on for him would have grown into full blown chub and that’s just—that’s not appropriate with Stiles sitting so closely to his crotch. Not now, at least. Or _ever,_ when Derek is reminded how young Stiles is when his shirt rides up a little and he sees flushed skin, all soft and tender like how a child usually is.

Fuck it. He’s going to become celibate.

-

(That’s a lie because he fucks his cock dry and raw when he gets home.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (coughs) Yes, I know! I promised, but didn't deliver. I wanted to write the smut scene but then it felt a little too rushes and all these plot bunnies started hurtling themselves at me. Hence, I'm going to push it back to the next chapter. I think this may be my longest story, yet. And I may end it probably around chapter 6~7? We just don't know. Let's see. Also, spot my valiant attempt at John Green.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P/s: Heavily un-edited towards the end. I'll get back on it tomorrow!
> 
> Warnings:  
> \- Slight dubious consent.

It’s a warm Saturday evening.

Derek’s lounging on the couch with a pair of his rattiest boxers, waistband loose and slung low at the hips. The television is switched on as background noise in the living hall, flickering dully with re-runs of The Big Bang Theory. He’s waiting, feet tapping in rhythm to the lull of his heart.

Saturday nights are reserved for Laura. ( _“It’s called long distance sibling bonding, idiot. Don’t question this, Derek. Just go with it. Shh, now, spill about California. What’s changed?”)_ There is, however, that one exception of a Saturday two weeks ago when Derek had to haul ass to home depot for a toilet plunger.

Yeah… don’t ask.

The house has been relatively quiet, only filled with the deprecating murmur of Sheldon’s voice (he relates) and the faint whisper of trees rustling around the perimeter. It’s… different from what Derek’s quickly accustomed to at the Stilinski’s, especially whenever Scott’s around too.

Stiles prefers to overwhelm short pulls of silence with his effervescent personality, meanwhile Derek is more partial to letting the quiet linger. He’s always been reserved, even as a kid. He likes the calming sanctity of being able to hear the clarity of his thoughts pinging in his mind.

But, Stiles though, he lets his thoughts tremble out like lashes of notes. He is a matinee performance, a cacophony of full bodied laughter and wild gesturing hands. Never truly letting the quiet settle into the creases of peeling wallpaper and Derek misses it, even though he’s never been one to settle with rowdiness.

Despite it all, Derek’s mind seems to be on par with Stiles’ acute favour of being loud. It’s been a ravenous chaos the entire day. Complete mayhem, really.

He hasn’t left the house since yesterday, decided against going round to the Stilinski’s. Not after yesterday, he can’t.

Derek’s still regrouping himself, finding the core center of his slowly wasting control. That and thinks that he can’t look Stiles straight in the eye, guiltless, not after he fucked his cock into the mattress, humped orgasms out like a dying man in a whore house.

He meddled with fire yesterday, furnace like heat pressing and etching into the dips of Derek’s elbows, against his palms and spreading like wildfire at his crotch. Now, he’s just soothing out the burns.

Derek can admit—he doesn’t know what he’s doing with Stiles. He really doesn’t. Sure, he admits he wants the kid, wants Stiles until it aggravates and chafes like hot, molten lava clawing like a vice at his chest because he can’t actually have him. It shouldn’t come to surprise him that wanting someone doesn’t mean he’d necessarily have them—have _Stiles,_ but it does.

God, fuck, it does because Derek wants to have the boy. But he knows he could never. Not in this life time because Stiles is a mere child while Derek is fifteen years his senior and that’s all types of wrong, so fucking wrong. There is no universe that would adhere or bend the rules of the law for that anomaly. Maybe another life, another situation—another fucking _reality_ whereas all they have is a small age gap and when Stiles’ touch doesn’t burn like sin and Derek doesn’t feel like the world is going to close up on him whenever he so much looks at the boy.

Fuck—but, Stiles is _worth_ fighting for.

Derek doesn’t know, fuck. He needs something, he needs—

His phone lights up then, halting his deafening thoughts as it vibrates under his thigh with a familiarized ringtone that was set for Laura, mewling softly. _I’m blue, ba da dee da ba diii._ (Laura customized it back when he was in New York. Said it was ironically funny since she’s a classic babe. Whatever that means. Laura is _anything_ but classic.)

“Lou.” Derek greets and clears his throat from the low rasp lingering at the edges as he hasn’t spoken once since the day started.

“Oh no,” Laura says, dismayed. “I know that tone. It’s your I-fucked-up voice. What’s wrong, baby bro?”

“I—it’s nothing. There’s nothing to worry about. All’s good.” Derek brushes off.

He really doesn’t want to talk about anything to do with Stiles to Laura. Sure, his sister has always been supportive (even when she came to know about the teenage fucks) but this is a new league. She’d probably fly down here to drag him back to New York, in cuffs. _By the ear._

“How’s work?” He asks instead, distracting.

“Nah-uh, no way. Nope.” Laura pops the ‘p’ in a smarmy tone. Derek’s willing to bet fifty bucks that she has on a shit eating grin, too. “I’m not gonna let you deflect this time. Now, c’mon. We’ve got three thousand miles between us, so, tell me what’s wrong.”

If Laura had a middle name, it’d be persistent.

Derek considers, letting out a loud bothered sigh. “Fine. But— this is a judge free zone. No ‘I told you so, _ha ha ha_ , eat shit little bro’ and definitely _no_ advice. God knows you give the worst advice.”

“It was one time!” Laura protests, already breaking out into giggling hiccups. Damn it. “It’s not my fault that you look absolutely horrible with red hair. Like a goddamn smurf. Oh man, I still need to post that picture up on Facebook.”

“No, you don’t.” Derek says brusquely, warning. “I have hacker friends back in New York. I will end you, Laura. Also, don’t forget that I have blackmail material too.”

“Oh, _really?_ ” She challenges. “Let’s have at it.”

Derek grins, “2008. Thai food. Explosive diarrhoea.” He pauses. “Right after you sneezed.”

“Fuck, I forgot about that. You know what? Fuck off, you little dick. It was food poisoning and we both knew it!”

“Yeah, yeah. Tell that weak excuse to the jacket I lent you to cover up your ass.” He says bitingly. “I think I told the dry cleaners to stake it and then burn it.”

“Whatever— _smurf_.” Laura always likes to have the last word, makes her feel powerful or something. Derek shrugs it off most of the time and that makes her throw out more biting last words before slamming the door. He misses her. “Stop fucking deflecting now and tell me your _woe is me_ life in California.”

Derek bristles, “And you wonder why they called you the insolent child between us.”

“Ugh. Go drown in horse semen.”

“Original. Tacky, but original.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Laura says, startling bitter. There’s something about how Laura says it, filled with so much ominous distaste and distinct irritation that sends a shiver under Derek’s skin. Always has.

“You don’t want to shoot, _fine._ Answer my questions then. I’ve been letting this go on for more than a month, Derek. What the hell _are_ you doing in California? _Hm?_ Do you even _have_ a job down there? Give me something more substantial than that fuckin’ self-actualization bullshit you fed me on that first week then maybe I’ll stop being such a pain in your ass.”

Derek gulps thickly.

He never liked being on the receiving end of Laura’s anger. Sure, between the both of them, he _looks_ to be more prone with anger type issues. What with his thick eyebrows and days old stubble while Laura is the definition of put together but don’t be fooled—that woman has a temper that puts Gordon Ramsay to shame.

“I—things.” He says meekly.

“ _Things?_ ” Laura scoffs scathingly. “Do you even remember that I busted my ass with several part time jobs just so you could do your degree in Uni? And then suddenly you’ve just become a—a _hippie?_ Is this what it is? You’ve basically flown back to Cali to smoke weed and be one with the forest or ocean, or whatever. Jesus Christ, Dee.”

What? She— _what?_

“What?” Derek says at a loss for words. He’s bewildered. “The fuck are you going on about? Nobody’s smoking anything. I don’t do drugs, you know that.”

“Well, _I_ thought that New York was our home but I was clearly wrong, wasn’t I?” Laura snaps bitingly.

Derek sighs. He doesn’t want to argue with his sister. She’s really the only blood relative that he keeps in contact with. Well, there’s Peter but he’s always been creepy and lives in Utah with his wife. So, yeah, best not to.

“What do you want me to say that would please you, Lou?”

“I don’t _want_ you to tell me things to satisfy my worries. You’re my baby brother and I worry about you. Fuck mom. She basically pissed off when we were teenagers and clearly doesn’t give a shit about any of us, but _I_ do, Dee. The _least_ you could do is give me a valid reasoning why you fucked off three thousand miles away.”

The _‘from me’_ is silent but Derek hears it clearly anyway.

Derek closes his eyes and tries to find a way to explain it to Laura without actually mentioning anything about Stiles. He makes a frustrated noise through his nose.

“I don’t know, okay? I just—I _couldn’t_ do New York anymore. I’ve tried for seven years, Lou, I really did. For you, for _us_ but Beacon Hills is my home—our home. It always will be. And I wanted to go _home_ and not to our shitty apartment where we can hear our neighbours having sex every alternate nights. But, home— _here_ , outside the preserve with a backyard, _and_ a car that I can drive into town _and_ people who would start conversations with a goddamn stranger.”

Laura exhales loudly through the receiver. “Okay, so, you’ve been home for a month already. Are you coming back, then?”

“I—” Derek pauses, debating.

He thinks of being back in the city once more, stifled by a dead beat job that probably pays him horrible money (since he fucked off from a good paying one and Derek’s certain that the upper-heads at his previous job aren’t too pleased with his sudden departure to take him back), and routined Chinese take-away with Laura every Thursdays.

It’s a despondent thought, morbid in a weary sense and it leaves his bones heavy, aching. That, and Stiles wouldn’t even be in the city with him but here, in California with his dad and Scott, miles away from Derek.

Stiles who has already filled the quiet corners of Derek’s life with such painted vibrancy that New York could never achieve in the last seven years. The idea that Derek would never be able to see Stiles’ washy hair spilling over his eyes, to smell the wafts of bubble gum shampoo or the clammy touch of Stiles’ pinkie wrapped around his—fuck, he’d probably fade into a hazy childhood memory of Stiles’.

That— _that_ makes everything inside Derek churns and aches hollowly.

He musters out a soft, “I don’t think so, Lou.”

Derek hears a faint sniffle over the receiver. “So, you’re staying then?”

“Maybe?” Derek really needs to learn how to say a simple yes when the situation arises. “Yeah. Yes, probably. I still have all my stuff back in New York, though.”

Laura lets out a long, sufferable breath. She sounds defeated. “Fuck knows why I’ve got myself a shitbag for a baby brother. It’s whatever. Ugh. I’d miss you, but you’re still paying half of the rent until I’m able to find a roommate to foot your half. God, what if I get a voyeur for a roomie, Dee? It’d be your fault.”

Derek rolls his eyes. Laura likes pulling out the theatrics as a last minute trick but Derek’s gotten long accustomed to it. He’s like Laura bullet-proof. “You can always come visit, y’know? You keep saying that New York is home for you, but how can it be when it’s made up with strangers?”

“Oh, shut your pie hole, you pretentious hippie. You have no right to speak until I’ve forgiven you for ditching me alone. Which, oh, look at that? That’ll take a long time.”

Derek laughs softly, “I love you too, Lou. By the way, have you heard of Skype?”

-

It’s been three (long, hauntingly silent and wrenchingly empty) days since Derek last saw Stiles. He’s only left the house on day two to go get milk. He’s not avoiding Stiles—not really. Okay, fine, he is because he’s just being careful.

Derek even looked over his shoulders as he walked around the grocery store, ducked corners and double checked the outdoor car park before he stepped in and out to make sure that John’s cruiser wasn’t idling there.

Derek knows that he really needs to get his act together and Laura really did talk some sensible things during that conversation on Saturday. He’s been back in California for a month and all he’s been doing is relatively spending his days away with Stiles and Scott—with eating contests, and fart jokes, and pulling in fort ideas.

He’s actually baffled that John hasn’t mentioned anything about it. Or Melissa. Or any responsible adult who has crossed paths with him. Maybe he’s been away at New York for too long that he’s already forgotten the simple ways of how a small town works.

The past several days were spent semi-productively, though. Derek managed to finally get caught up with Game of Thrones (fuck that show to hell and back, he may also have to replenish Kleenexes) and sorted out all his work emails that entailed with his previous job.

Then he sent out a couple of resumes to a few local firms outside of Beacon Hills, applying as an interior designer but has heard nothing back so far. Derek’s not exactly holding high hopes, either.

He knows that there isn’t much of a market need for his job criteria in small towns (and even if they do, they’d most likely hire a local for it). Derek probably would have better luck in the heart of California, but that’s almost a two hour drive away and he’s just gotten away from one city, he doesn’t want to be jumping into another quite so fast.

Even if it’s the City of Angels (of dashed dreams, and hopes, and maybe a little of your sanity.)

Derek just doesn’t like the idea of cities, for now, and he doesn’t necessarily _mind_ doing meagre jobs just to get his hands busy. Like, walking dogs at the park or doing construction labour around the neighbourhood, but Laura would probably take his framed degree back in their apartment and murder him in cold blood with it.

The sun is beginning to set on day four and the heat slowly being replaced with an evening draft, skies meshing away in aurora pinks and navy. That’s when an idea strikes him, and okay, fine. Maybe Derek’s thinking of Stiles when the thought comes to him.

( _What?_ He hasn’t seen the kid in _four_ days. He went cold turkey, he’s allowed some downtime to think of him, okay?)

It’s also the first time he willingly calls Talia in five years. The last being when he graduated out from College and Laura made him call her. When he said _made_ , Derek meant that Laura physically forced it upon him. She sat on his back and had a phone jammed right at his ear.

It was all very dramatic.

He manages to get her landline number off Laura quickly with an SOS text.

Derek’s still debating on what to say exactly when he goes to hell with it. (He does that a lot, doesn’t he? It always seems to come back and bite him in the ass, too.) The phone line suddenly cuts off after five rings and Talia’s voice chirps happily into it.

“Hello Talia,” Derek greets, cringing at how awkward he sounds. No son should ever feel this uncomfortable talking to their own mother. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“Derek? Is that you, Derek?” Talia says, with tilting warmth in her voice that Derek only remembers it as pre-divorce Talia. “Oh! I’ve heard so much about you from Laura. Are you okay, sweetheart? How have you been? Silly me, bombarding you with questions. It’s been such a long time, and no. I’m quite free. Just doing some painting when you called.”

A tug of nostalgia creeps up Derek’s spine. Talia used to do that. She would wear flowy summer dresses and have acrylics and charcoal lining at the sides of her palms, face flushed with such contentment whenever she finishes a piece of work.

When he was five, Derek used to quietly watch her work in the attic with stacks of art supplies strewn everywhere. He used to think his mom was a fallen angel, or some sorts, with an old Carpenter’s song humming under her breath and wisps of dark auburn hair framing her face.

She was a _mom,_ all in all,—until she wasn’t.

“It’s—I’m fine.” He answers lamely, instead.

“Are you, really?” She asks softly. Derek fiddles with the drawstrings of his sweatpants. She continues, “Laura told me you’re in California. Updated me that you’re actually in Beacon Hills. Are you staying in our—” Her breath catches a little. “—in _the_ old family house? I didn’t sell it.”

“Yeah.” Derek answers airily. “Yeah, I am. The, uh, key’s still where we used to hide it and I didn’t want to spend money on a motel room. It was a last minute decision. I hope that’s okay? I paid off the electricity bills and such.”

“Of course its fine, Derek. I kept the house for mostly that reason, too.” She tells. “I just knew that one day either you or Laura may want to go home and, well. I didn’t need the house, or the money that comes with it. I just—” She pauses. “I’m just glad that you called, sweetheart. I’ve missed you.”

Derek clears his throat, feels the twinge of guilt snapping at his fingertips. “Sorry. It’s inexcusable for me not to call, but—”

“I get it.” Talia cuts in, wistfully. “I was in a bad place and didn’t fulfil my roles the way I should have. You two were still kids and I—” She stops wetly. Derek thinks she hears her sniffling through the static. “Even as a kid, you were never a big fan of drawing negativity into your life. I get it, sweetheart. I don’t hold it upon your head.”

A silence hovers, pulls, until Derek says softly, almost whispers it. “I did miss you, too, y’know?”

Talia laughs. It’s a gentle tinkle of sound that Derek remembers it being painted against the walls of their house during his childhood. “I’m glad. I am. Are you settling alright, away from Laura and the city? The house is quite big for just one person, too.”

“It’s been quiet.” Derek tells. “Different from NYC but it’s been okay. More than okay, actually.” He doesn’t mean to elaborate but apparently, his tongue didn’t get the memo. “I’ve been spending most of the days back here with Deputy Stilinski and his son. They’ve really been very welcoming.”

“ _Ah_ ,” Talia coos fondly. “John. He’s a good man, and, yes. I remember his son, too. Stiles, was it?”

“Yeah. Stiles. Uh. That’s his name.”

“He used to spend all his time around the bookstore, even helped out a few times whenever new stocks came in. He’s a good kid. Are they doing well?”

“They are.” Derek answers, thinking back on that evening they spent gathered around the living hall and John quoting Finding Nemo lowly under his breath and Stiles pinching him at the thigh, with something akin to pride flushing at his cheeks. A small smile curls at the corner of his lips. “Stiles definitely still is a firecracker, and John is doing great.”

“And you? Are you doing well?” Talia asks, honestly and quickly adds. “And none of that that you’ve been feeding to Laura. I want the truth. It’s all I ask.”

Derek pinches at the bridge of his nose, huffing. Sometimes he forgets that Laura and Talia share the same persisting personality. It’s a real winner, truly. “I am, really.” He assures. “California will always be home, y’know? It’s… nice. The change. I’m even planning to stay, too.”

“You are?” She sounds surprised. “What about New York?”

He sighs heavily. “New York was…” Derek drawls off, thinking of a way to put it. “It was an adventure. But, I think I’ve reached my quota for that. I like it here, back in Beacon Hills. Maybe it won’t offer me great things like back in the city will; I do think it was time.”

Talia hums accordingly, accepting. “I understand.” She says slowly. “Arizona’s nice, but it’s definitely no Beacon Hills.”

Derek nods his head sagely, lets the pulling moment of quite settle in the receiver.

“Alright,” Talia starts. “Not that I don’t like catching up with you, Derek, but I know you. You called me for a reason, especially since I had no short notice from Laura that you’d be calling. Did you need something?”

Derek coughs out an awkward laugh, “Yeah, um, kind of? I don’t _need_ something, just permission? I don’t know about the legal affairs, though.”

“Oh? Legal affairs? What’s wrong?”

“No—” Derek says quickly. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m not in trouble or anything. Laura would probably fly down to shoot me if I was.” He hems and haws for a second, wondering how to go about it and decides to just let the words roll off his tongue instead.

“Uh—it’s actually about the bookstore.”

“My bookstore?”

“Yeah, that.” Derek answers. His palm is getting clammy with the firm grip he has on the phone. “I’ve, well, been back for a month and, uh, it’s difficult to get a job down here. I’ve sent out resumes but small towns don’t really need what I have to offer. It got me thinking a little. Might also have something to do with Laura intimidating me quite a bit.”

Talia chuckles, “She definitely takes after me, then.” She pauses. “So, you want to work at the bookstore?”

Derek makes a noise of agreement. “Yeah. I know it’s closed down and all, but I really do want to have it up again.” Don’t say it’s for Stiles—don’t do it. You’re tougher than that. “I, uh—I drove around the venue yesterday, checked it out, and the place is still vacant. But, I don’t know if it’s still legally attached under your name.”

He knows the nobody’s really interested in taking up that place, too even though it’s in the heart of town, down an alley and beside a quaint café run by community college goers. Beacon Hills is a small town, probably packed with less than a thousand head and word spreads like forest fires around here. Especially since Charles fucking (literally) off with a minor was the gossip of the decade, making Talia the sad widow living in the big ol’ house up the preserve with two unruly teenagers on her hands.

Nobody would want to situate themselves into Talia’s aura of shittiest luck, and they had all the right reasoning too. Charles was a family man, hosted monthly barbecue gatherings and all that, even did up some activities at the annual Hills Fair.

Sure, they’re at the edge of California, land of the free and what’s not, but some of the folks down here are pretty traditional. And quite superstitious about bad omen.

Derek gets it, he doesn’t blame the locals and well, he’s got nothing to lose anyway. Except John’s due respect if ever comes to know about his sick, twisted ideas that he has with Stiles, of course. But other than that, not really.

“Of course it’s fine,” Talia finally mutters, breathily and it sounds like she’s smiling. “It would be nice too. For the kids. Everything’s online nowadays but nothing could ever beat the smell of old books. It’ll be good for ‘em.”

Derek hums in agreement, “Give some depth of culture to these California kids, you mean?”

She laughs, “Yes. However, I don’t think it’s under my name anymore, though. The bookstore. Not legally, that is.”

“Okay. I’ll just double check the contracts if it is. But, uh,” He stumbles. “Is it alright if I kept the original name of the bookstore? Just—it’s nice, y’know? Very… reminiscing. It’d be wrong if I changed it otherwise.”

Talia coughs out a wet chuckle, “That would make me extremely happy, Derek.” And that is that.

Derek is being given the go-ahead. He stays on the phone for another five more minutes with Talia, letting her voice coat like nostalgia and familiar warmth as she exchanges information about Arizona’s heat and where she’s been living in the last three years. It’s… nice.

Maybe a little of the bitterness he holds out on Talia burns out that evening.

-

It’s been a week and two days. (Who’s counting? Derek isn’t.)

John, however, calls on the third.

-

Derek is padding around restlessly in the study, heels dragging against the carpet as he scratches at his now week old beard. He’s reviewing the first drafted blueprint for the bookstore. He’s been working on integrating some of Talia’s old designs of the place meanwhile also incorporating some of his own touch on it.

He wants to draw in the hipsters since it’s his main target audience (beggars can’t be choosers, especially since he’s opening up a bookstore. He needs to be honest with the market demands). So, yes, he pens down _vinyl records, maybe?_ on a post-it.

That’s when his phone goes off, vibrating on the desk as it flashes with John’s name on the caller id.

Derek frowns at it. John never calls, not since he exchanged numbers with him and Melissa since when he brought Scott and Stiles out for a movie that first time. Pale flashes of Stiles in trouble ping in his head and it goes too quick for Derek to harness a solid thought on what John may actually be calling him for but still, the guilt gnaws at his throat nonetheless.

He should’ve been there but he’s hiding out in this damn house.

Quickly, he picks up the phone and answers worriedly, stumbling over words. “John. What’s… what’s wrong? Is Stiles—”

“Derek,” John cuts him off. “Stiles’ fine, nothing to worry about, except maybe he’s being a little nosier than usual. But, well, that’s m’son for you.”

Derek releases an awkward, wheezing noise. He’s never made that sound before but the faint embarrassment is quickly swept away by relief flooding back to his fingertips because Stiles is _fine_ —he’s not hurt or anything. That surge of guilt from before and the impending adrenaline starts to settle from one breath to the next.

“Also, Hale. I’m a cop.”

 _Uh oh._ Derek’s busted. He’s going to jail, for sure. Probably getting a tenner for giving Stiles that damn belly rub—fuck. It was nice while it lasted, life. Hello orange coloured overalls.

“Don’t think I haven’t notice you’ve been going AWOL on us the last week. At least give the poor boy some warning next time—he’s been attaching himself on me now. Like a damn octopus.”

The sound he emits is close to the one before but less humiliating, more like a gurgle of laughter that got stuck at the back of his tongue. He hears Stiles yelling softly through the receiver, voice muffled. “ _Hey!_ M’ a koala bear! Not an octopus. Get it right, dad.”

“Uh, sorry.” Derek finally says ruefully. He is apologetic, but it’s more parts of shame than anything else. “I’ve, well, been getting some job stuff sorted out. I also, uh, didn’t want to seem like I was intruding since I’ve taken quite a bit of time from the both of you.” He adds. “Especially Stiles.”

“Aw hell,” John cries mockingly. “Quit giving me that rubbish. You know you’re always welcomed over here.”

“Still—”

“Don’t argue with me, son.” John tells kindly, voice filled with warmth. He reminds Derek a little of Charles, pre-minor. “I am the law, and the law says you should get yourself down here because I need babysitting duty for this monster.”

“Oh?”

“Scott had a really bad asthma attack.” He informs. “Melissa’s got him down at the hospital so she’s got her hands full. I’ve got a night shift I can’t get out and also, I’m pretty sure most of the deputies down at the station would willingly pay me a grand to murder Stiles.”

“What is this? Insult your son day?” Stiles wails faintly in the background. “Also, _ugh, dad_. I’m ten. I don’t need a babysitter, okay?” He whines petulantly. “Derek, c’mon. Be a good buddy and tell dad that I’m old enough to not need a babysitter.”

Derek hears a quiet smack of flesh and John’s wincing groan. “Hey, stop the parental abuse. Also, weren’t _you_ the one who wanted Derek to come over ten minutes ago?”

“ _Shh!_ ” Stiles squeaks out and then the line rumbles with dry static that Derek has to pull the phone away from his ear for a second. It sounds like John dropped the phone on the ground. “Don’t embarrass me! He can hear you!”

“Oh, stuff it, kid.” John tells and then his voice is distinct at Derek’s ear again. “Sorry ‘bout that. I got tackled from the octopus kid. Anyway, why don’t you round up in thirty? My shift starts at the next hour, if that’s okay with you?”

Derek tries to tame the stupid grin on his face. What? Stiles is adorable and he can’t—oh, shut up. You are not the judge of anyone, conscience. “Sure. I have nothing holding me up. I’ll be there.”

Before the call clicks off, Derek hears Stiles murmuring sulkily at John. “You are _definitely_ not getting any best father presents for your birthday. More like worst father. _Hmph_.”

The smile stays even when he’s driving over to the Stilinski’s.

-

Derek knocks tentatively at the door. He’s rolling the car keys at the ball of his palm and kicks at the imaginary speck of dust on the welcome mat—he’s not nervous. He’s not. Whatever, sue him. He hears a ‘coming’ being shouted through the door and seconds later, it’s being gingerly opened and John appears behind it.

John’s all worn out lines pressed at the corners of his eyes and faint dark circles that draws Derek’s immediate attention. He looks exhausted, kind of how he looked pre-Derek when they were stood awkwardly at the checkout counter.

It leaves a low unplesantry brewing at the base of his spine.

John greets him while ushering him into the house, saying. “Thanks for doing this, Derek. I know it’s on really short notice.” He purses his lips, considering. “I could pay you for the night? You probably had some important things to do but my neck was on the line.”

“No, no. Nothing important.” Derek waves his hand, shutting down that proposition. The idea of being paid to spend time with Stiles is—it’s wrong. Awful. He doesn’t like it at all. “Don’t. I won’t accept your money, John.”

“We could do the standard hours? What is it nowadays? Six bucks an hour?”

Derek grimaces. It’s not exactly a _job_ to be around Stiles. Hell, Derek thinks that _he_ should be the one paying since, you know. He’s eventually going to pay for Stiles’ therapy. “It’s fine. Really but I don’t think you’re going to put this down, so…” He considers. “How about if a home cooked meal is up for discussion—no money, then yes.”

John laughs softly and pats him on the back. “I’ll see you here on Friday, then.”

Derek is about to reply him with a reciprocal back pat when Stiles’ voice comes bursting through the thin walls of the house. “Dad? _Daaad!_ ” He yells and it sounds like it’s coming from upstairs. “Is that Derek? Is he here? Gimme one second and I’ll be down!”

“Don’t tell him I said this,” John whispers conspiratorially, darting his eyes up the staircase and to Derek. “But, kid’s tryna get all spiffy for you. Even asked me where I placed his best jeans at.”

That earns a soft huff from Derek, eyes crinkling.

He’s about to say something along the lines of ‘Your son is the fucking cutest and I want to do bad-good things to him. So, please arrest me before I do said things and possibly warrant myself into jail for the rest of eternity’ but then a stampede of clumsy footsteps are tumbling down the stairs, interrupting him.

Stiles leaps off the second last step with a triumph noise and then he’s lunging towards Derek.

“ _Dur_ -ek!” He mock cries and before Derek knows it, he’s being slightly knocked back, a soft _oof_ leaving his mouth when Stiles actually flings himself bodily around him. “You’re here again! I thought you no longer wanted to be my friend! But, you’re here!”

John is chuckling at his son’s antics, shooting Derek an apologetic look. “Ease up, koala. He’s not a tree.”

“He’s _my_ tree,” Stiles pouts, looking up at Derek. There’s that look. “Aren’t you?”

Derek hums sagely while that pair of doe eyes are slowly tossing him into the depths of hell and he has to stop his hand from actually going to edge the hair away that’s covering his eyes. “Yes. I am the revised version of Mother Nature. Pretty sure you’ll get the note of confirmation soon enough.”

He gives a shrug at John, in his own way saying that _it’s okay, nothing to be sorry about. Your colleagues may want to execute him, but never Derek._ He’d be the knight in shining armour to fend off these preposterous creatures, without sweeping Stiles off his feet, of course.

Derek’s not _that_ type of cliché.

Stiles seem to accept his answer and beams up at him before he starts to nuzzle his cheek against Derek’s hip, arms tightening around his waist. He may be internally chanting a prayer of strength in every language he knows so that he won’t pop an erection there and then. Damn it. He really shouldn’t have gone the last week without masturbating.

“See, dad.” Stiles harrumphs and finally lets go of Derek, sliding his way down until his feet anchors back on the ground again. “Told you.”

“Of course,” John relents, rolling his eyes fondly. “You are the knowledgeable son. I keep forgetting.”

“That’s right.” He declares proudly, puffing his chest out. “All the smarts in the family goes to me. Aha!” Then he focuses back at Derek. “You—” He points his finger. “—are not forgiven for leaving me and Scott alone for the last week, though.”

“Um,” Derek stutters and tries meekly with a, “I had grown up thingies to do?”

There’s no point in trying to defend himself, actually. He’s been around the both of them for the last month and whenever has errands to run, he’d usually inform Stiles the day prior.

Stiles sees through it, narrowing his eyes and his lips tightening. “Nope. Still not forgiven. You’ve got a lot of making up to do, old man.”

John chokes out a loud laugh at that and it digs fondness into Derek. He cuffs Stiles at the back of his neck, “Alright, alright. Break it up you two.” He glances over to Derek. “How’s the job coming along? Good?”

“It is,” He smiles, small. “Trying to get Talia’s bookstore up and running again.”

Stiles gapes up at him, blinking hurriedly before he pinches Derek at the waist with a soft yip. “Oh my god! Are you really?” Then he tugs at John’s nicely ironed uniform that earns him a hand batting. “Dad! The bookstore is going up again! _Eeee!_ Best. Day _. Ever_.”

John squeezes his fingers deftly before releasing his clutch on Stiles’ nape. “I think you just gave my son an aneurysm.”

Derek chuckles (definitely not a giggle) because, well, the main reason he wanted to do up the bookstore is because of Stiles in the first place. “So… am I forgiven yet? Or do I still need to grovel?”

“Hmm,” Stiles considers, biting at his bottom lip. “Fine, because I loved that bookstore, but only for now! You still need to give me, y’know.” He lowers his voice. “—the secret cookies that dad doesn’t know.”

“I am standing right beside you, Stiles and still have perfect hearing.”

“Uh—I mean, the secret… secret… lab! Yes. Look, _Dur_ -ek. We have banana muffins! I helped bake it this afternoon!”

Derek gets willingly dragged into the kitchen while Stiles’ small hand clutches onto his little finger. He’s pretty okay with it, nothing biggie. Definitely not yelling ecstatically inside like a hopeless teenager with a terrible crush _(“He’s holding my hand!”)._ Nope. He’s cool— _collected._

Derek’s probably iceman now with how extremely cool he is.

“What’s wrong with your face?” Stiles asks suddenly, giving him an awkward look.

“I—nothing.” Derek stutters, heat flushing at the high points of his cheeks. He stuffs his mouth with a handful of muffin. “Nothin’s wr’ng wif mah f’ce. Let m’eat in peece.”

-

“And…” Stiles drawls, studiously listening to the cruiser’s engine starting up at the garage before it finally drives away, leaving a wake of silence in its hold. “—dad has left the building!” He cheers victoriously.

Derek scoffs out a laugh because how can he not with Stiles standing on the couch, arms thrown high above his head. “We, and by we, it’s really I, who promised your dad that there would be no skateboarding. So, don’t even think about it.”

Stiles sticks his tongue out at him and flops down onto the couch. “You’re no fun. Your grown up thingies have sucked all the fun out of you. Gimme back my _Dur_ -ek, you—you _creature_!”

“You’ll live,” Derek remarks offhandedly. He glances at the selection of DVDs stacked beside the television. “How about we watch a couple of movies before bed time?”

“Fun sucker,” Stiles emphasizes once more before he crawls over to Derek. He absolutely does not think that Stiles looks like a kitty cat—he does not. Especially on his hands and knees with a cute button nose to boot. “Can we watch Frozen? Dad got it on Blu-ray last week.”

“Sure,” Derek shrugs and plucks the disc out from the pile before he puts it on.

“You know,” Stiles starts, pinching at a thread of his quite frayed shirt. It’s probably an old one too, worn from too many laundry cycles and fits a little too tightly at the abdomen region but loose at the shoulders, probably from Scott pulling at it while playing. It’s his go-to move. “Me and Scott were actually planning to remove you from the three musketeers since you started ignoring me.”

“I wasn’t ignoring you.” Derek huffs plaintively. _Liar,_ his mind bellows hypocritically. “I spoke to Laura, my sister. Remember her? I told you she was still in New York. She wanted me to get a job, so—I did.”

“Well,” Stiles murmurs, sinking into himself on the couch. “You’ve could’ve at least called.”

Derek blows out a breath, scoots over closer while the credits roll on the credit. “Yeah, I should’ve. I will next time, alright?”

“Promise?”

Derek lifts his little finger out and when Stiles doesn’t respond, he bops at his nose. “Don’t leave me hanging, baby boy.”

“M’ not a baby,” Stiles juts his bottom lip out and reluctantly hooking his own pinkie around Derek’s.

“I promise to call next time.” Derek solemnly swears but doesn’t add _cross my heart and hope to die_ , because, yeah, no. They’re not making a recess pact or something. Nothing _that_ dramatic. “Also, now that the bookstore is opening up soon, I may need a little helper…”

“Me!” Stiles chirps up, eyes wide and bright and seemingly forgotten that he’s supposed to be upset with Derek. He sidles closer, thigh pressing against Derek’s hip. “I can help! I’m small too! So, I can like, get into the little places that the books fall! I’ll be a _fantastic_ helper!”

“Ooh,” Derek teases. “Big word for such a small guy.”

“ _Heyyy_ ,” Stiles whines, poking him at the ribs.

He’s in a playful mood today, Stiles, and that probably accounts to why he crawls into the empty space of Derek’s lap, settling, so that his body is twisted around until he’s actually straddling him. Christ. This must be a test created by the devil—or angels. He doesn’t even know anymore.

“I’m not _that_ small,” Stiles points out. “I’ve grown a little bit this week, if you must know. But! I’ll be your little helper. Please, _Dur_ -ek? I’ll be _so_ good.”

A zing of arousal strikes like gold heat at his crotch. Derek rasps out, “Oh, really? You’ll be a good boy? For me?”

Stiles nods his head eagerly, promising. “The good- _est_.”

Derek chuckles and doesn’t stop himself when he leans in to press a chaste peck against his forehead, “That’s not a real word.”

“Nuh-uh, it is.”

“Alright, alright.” Derek relents because he knows they’ll continue with this back and forth for _ages._ He’s had this exact same conversation with Stiles multiple of times whenever he makes up his own word and Derek _never_ wins. “You are the _best_ boy. Now, turn around. You’re missing the movie. They’re chopping ice, it’s a big deal.”

Stiles pouts at him, thick eyelashes fanned across his fattened cheeks that it makes Derek’s resolute crumbles a little. He’s a goddamn wet dream, that’s what he is. Stiles finally wills himself to pay attention to the movie when the first song starts but still accost to sitting on his lap, only struggling around so that he’s turned towards the television.

“Uh,” Derek stumbles out, coughing. “You do know that there’s a lot of space on the couch, right?”

“Yep,” Stiles replies smugly and Derek just knows that he probably has a shit eating grin to follow with it. “But you make a better couch. Also, I’ve missed you because you were ignoring me the last week ‘cause you’re a big, ol’ smelly poop.”

Derek doesn’t have the heart to shove him off, then. Not that he even wants to before that, really.

Stiles is a small kid and he fits against him just nicely, with his back curving and moulding to the little dips of Derek’s chest and stomach. He can almost hear the faint click of them finally joining together when Stiles decides to get really comfortable, shifting a few inches back while his bottom is resting snugly on his thighs.

The first twenty minutes of the movie goes by and it’s good—innocent. Stiles snuffles into the back of his palm a little when the white haired chick starts to ignore her younger sister. It’s all Disney prime material for urging potent tears from adolescent kids (and maybe Derek too, but he’s going to deny it. He only cries at Lion King because he’s loyal like that).

But, as soon the movie picks up and frosty the snowman (yes, Derek knows that’s not its name but, you know what. It’s fucking _frosty_ for him. What kind of name is an Olaf?), Stiles starts to squirm on his lap whenever the music throws out a catchy tune.

That’s when the lap seating gets not too, uh, _virtuous._

Especially when the white haired lady starts to lose her shit and the song is an upbeat rhythm. (Derek’s also mildly worried that she may cause an avalanche but Stiles may not get the reference since he probably doesn’t know what the heck an avalanche is.)

He should start to make a somewhat believable excuse and scoot away. Or, probably even push Stiles off him when his cock starts to fatten up in his three quarter pants since Stiles starts to dance along to the fast beat of the song, bobbing against his thigh like he’s oblivious to the fact that he’s being the worst goddamn cock tease in the world, but he can’t.

Derek likes the solid weight of Stiles pressing down on top of him, bodily warmth seeping under his clothes and festering under his skin into bright bursts of arousal. He’s sporting a semi now but thankfully, the song ends.

However, Stiles starts to babble out commentary about the movie, shifting about on his thigh.

“Y’know,” Stiles starts and twists a little to take a peek at Derek’s face. It’s nice and all because of eye contact but when he does that, Stiles’ butt shifts against his getting there stiff cock, placing all the right types of pressure against it to make it go full mast.

He blows out a loud exhale, stifling the groan in the shallow of his mouth.

“What?” He grits out, not too harshly though. Stiles is sensitive to things like that—said once that it was something Scott’s dad used to do, talk down on him in that condescending, brute way which made Derek venomous with rage that day.

“You kinda look like that guy.” Stiles indicates with a nudge of his shoulder at the screen. “The ice guy.”

“No, I don’t.” Derek disagrees with a shake of his head, holding firmly onto Stiles’ hips to prevent him from moving again. He’s really hard right now and already feels the slick already pooling at his cockhead—he doesn’t need Stiles wondering why he has something poking at his little butt.

He already has one crisis going on, giving the sex talk is not one he wishes to will upon himself.

“You do,” Stiles persists, squinting at the television before continuing. “It’s the nose, I think. If he has dark hair like you, and a beard! He’d definitely look like you.”

Derek would argue with him that he does not, absolutely do not look like that guy. The nose on him is a little chunky, isn’t it? However, all the blood has rushed to the south, leaving him a little light headed and too turned on while watching a fucking Disney movie to actually deliver a conclusive argument with a ten year old, so he bumps Stiles’ cheek with his head, urging him to pay attention.’

It goes on like that for almost the entirety of the movie and Derek’s pretty sure that he has a zipper imprint on his dick by the time Anna is at the brink of death.

Also, he learnt that his cock can deflate into a semi chub and then become an unyielding pressure of _want_ in less than twenty seconds. That and he’s being _edged_ by a prepubescent kid—almost to the point where if he actually up and leaves to the bathroom and gets a hand around his shaft, he’d come in several strokes.

Derek never wanted it go this far. (That’s a lie. He did.) It’s not a good idea since the front of shorts are probably already staining with pre-come and he’s just— _hot_ all over from valiantly trying on not creaming in his pants. There’s sweat pooling at the back of his knees, at his pits, and beading at his forehead.

He’s literally a string being pulled taut and as soon the movie ends, he’s going to excuse himself and probably blow a load into the sink.

Fuck, he _really_ needs to come right now.

Of course that’s when the movie picks up with its climax (ha) and Stiles starts to squirm brazenly in his lap, shifting and pressing against his swollen cock like the most gratuitous of pleasure. He starts shouting, too and his voice rumbles and vibrates against Derek’s chest, “Oh my god! Anna can’t die! Kiss her, you big oaf!”

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek rasps out warningly. His voice is wrecked—almost fucked out. “Stop movin’ around.”

“But!” Stiles cries and the scene plays out, dramatic music flowing out through the tinny of the television speakers. “Oh no, _oh no._ Dur-ek, I can’t watch this. My heart can’t take it. I cannot do it.”

Then Stiles is trying to struggle himself around so that he’s facing Derek, pulling his knees up so they’re bracketed around his thighs. He swoops into Derek’s neck and clutches the front of his shirt into the small of Stiles’ fist, leaning front and that angle twists something like fire at his groin—lighting up like peaks of untamed goodness.

“ _Oh god_ ,” Derek whimpers shallowly, breaths labouring against Stiles’ shoulder. He’s fighting on just thrusting up against Stiles’ ass but he keeps his hands firm at the side so that he won’t reach around and just— _grip_ themselves onto the pert, fullness of them. “Stop. Moving.”

“Fine, fine.” Stiles acquiesces but nuzzles against his neck, unbeknownst to his wasting sanity. He shifts away, probably to say something but the movement catches against his cockhead, dragging this tenfold, silky pleasure down to the roots of his toes.

Derek clenches his eyes shut, trying to focus on his entire being on not coming (don’t do it, don’t come _, don’t_ ). He’s heaving by now, and his hands have moved from being deadened hangers by his side to gripping Stiles at the hips, thumbs digging lightly into the soft pudginess of flesh.

“Derek?” Stiles murmurs, and it’s so soft, warm breath pelting against his cheeks. “You’re all sweaty. Are you okay? Are you sick? I can call my dad if you are.”

“No— _don’t_. Don’t call your dad.” Derek roughs out, and just. _Fuck it._

He jerks up onto Stiles, digs his cock up to beginning curve of his ass and the friction welcomes his straining cock so blessedly that Derek has to muffle a groan against Stiles’ small shoulder. “Oh god, don’t move, Stiles. Okay? Say you won’t move.”

If he pulls away, he’d see the slightly confused, dazed look on Stiles’ face but he won’t. Derek can’t look at Stiles right now because he’s _taking_ from him right now and that’s—that’s what he never wanted to do. But, he’s so hard and at the verge of shooting white inside his boxers that he can’t control it anymore.

“Okay, m’ not moving.” Stiles replies shakily and he’s twining his arms around the back of Derek’s neck, face pushing into the little dip of his collar and neck. “I’ll be a good boy.”

Derek grunts lowly and then mouths the sound into the worn fabric of Stiles’ shirt, teething at it because he is. Stiles always has been so good for him— _to_ him, especially right now. It’s almost like the boy senses what he needs, even though unknowing, because he starts to urge himself a little, nothing too glaringly obvious or sensual and definitely not as deft like how the teenagers he used to fuck would grind their cute, little bubble ass filthily against his cock.

No, Stiles is unsure, lazy movements, haltingly from one gyration to the next, and so indicative of the person that he is. Derek whines at the back of his throat, finally releasing the cloth from his mouth and that’s when he sees pale skin—he dives into it.

He leaves an open mouthed kiss on it first, not near the column of his neck, lower, below his collarbone. Then he sucks the thin skin into his mouth, teasing and bruising it against his upper teeth that Stiles starts to actually make these soft, whimper-like noises against Derek’s neck.

“Hurts, Derek. _It hurts_.” Stiles whines and claws at his nape, fingernails etching half-moons there.

And _god_ —Stiles is making these delicious noises Derek wants to capture into his mouth, and it emboldens him, kindling velvety fervour at the base of his cock, making his shaft swell even thicker. He’s so close, so fucking close to the edge of free fall, and Derek knows there’s no turning back now. He can’t, not when he has a lapful of Stiles and he’s fucking his cock into the shallow of his ass cheeks.

He’s going to hell anyway so he finally ghosts his hands down to Stiles’ little butt and it drags out this long, strangled mewl from Stiles once he gets his hands on it.

“What—what’re you going?” Stiles asks confusedly but his voice is clearly shot, squeaking a little. “Dad says that my buttock is private. I can’t let anyone touch it.”

Derek wishes he was a better man, not controlled by his cock but he’s so close—seconds away from bursting his load for his little boy. “Please,” He cries softly, yearning permission as he ruts up against Stiles again, squeezing his ass cheeks and urging him down.

He’s near already, feels his balls already drawing up and tightening while the crown of his cockhead is tightening, preparing to spurt. Derek jerks up again, once more, sliding his body sensually so that it’s a long sleek move when he rucks up against Stiles’ ass and then he’s just chasing it. He starts to fuck up, unabashed, mouthing weakly at the already bruised skin.

Derek’s panting, a low growl rumbling at his chest. “I’m—” Don’t say fuck. Don’t curse in front of the kid. “ _Fuck_ —you feel so good, Stiles. So good.” Then deliberately spreads Stiles’ cheeks in between his fingers, feeling the thin fabric of his pants melding with the action.

Then, he roughs him down against his cock, squeezing Stiles tighter, closer to him as he ruts his cock up repeatedly, feeling the slick of his foreskin pulling just rightly and then he’s releasing, cock throbbing to the rapid flutter of his heartbeat with each clench of his orgasm.

He’s pulling long drags of air, tongue darting out to soothe the worried skin littered along Stiles’ collarbone. God, what did he just do? Fuck—he just. _Oh god._ His come is starting to settle, mocking like disdain and his piss poor restraint.  

“Did you just—” Stiles gasps; shifting away from Derek so that he has a good look at him. Derek clenches his eyes closed. He feels abominable, no, scratch that. He _is_ abominable. There is a man like Robin Thicke, and then there’s him, several levels and shit hells below. “You said a bad word!”

“I’m—”Humiliated. Revolted. Yet, Derek still wants to go for another one more time. Several times, actually, until his cock starts to chafe in his crusted underwear. Fuck. Derek’s all types of fucked up. He’s crossed the line. He’s a fucking immigrant now at the land of no return.

The child molester who has come staining on his pants.

Regardless all that, Derek’s not sorry it happened. Derek wanted it—he did. He never meant to touch Stiles, he didn’t because that isn’t right but he did, had two handfuls of Stiles’ ass cheeks in his palm, gripping and squeezing.

Derek blinks his eyes open, slowly and Stiles’ bottom lip is worried into a flushed shade of dark ruby, like he had been chewing on it for the last few minutes. This little boy will be the end of him. It will, and he’ll be stuck in cuffs, thrown in a cell with grey walls and bright overalls.

“You were being a naughty boy, too.”

Stiles’ bottom lip quivers then, eyes wetting. “No—I wasn’t. You said I was being a good boy. You did.” He persists on. “But you said a bad word. You said—”

Derek mutes the word with a finger on his lips. He doesn’t want Stiles to ever say it. Not now, at least. Maybe when he’s two years older, in the midst of puberty and his voice would dip like sex, predatory, as he hisses out swear words.

“That’s because you were doing bad things to me, baby boy.”

“What—”

“You got me hard.” Derek gulps thickly, slowly entangling his fingers into Stiles’ hair. “Then you got me off. All with your cute lil’ bum. You’ve been a naughty boy, haven’t you, Stiles?”

“No,” Stiles mewls, shaking his head. “I wanna be good for you, Derek. M’sorry. It wasn’t on purpose. Does that—” His breath hitches wetly. “Does that make me the Joker now too? Like you? I don’t wanna! I want to be Batman still.”

Derek presses a smile against his temple, scooting Stiles nearer to him. “No. You’re too adorable to pull the Joker off, I reckon.”

Stiles bats him weakly, “M’not adorable. I’m _handsome_.”

Derek chuckles, humming. “Very handsome, you are.”

“And smart!”

“And smart.” He echoes.

“And I—” Stiles pauses before he blabbers. “I like you a lot, a lot. Like, how Scott likes to look at girls sometimes.” He scrunches his nose up, clearly thinking that that’s gross. “That’s why I let you touch my butt. It’s private but I like you so, it’s okay, right? My dad won’t scold me for it?”

Derek frowns down at him. He doesn’t want the guilt to gnaw him away just yet, prefers for it when he’s alone back at home and wants the sated feeling of having Stiles in his arms and the post orgasm sensitivity weighing his limbs down.

Stiles chews at his bottom lips again and Derek smacks his tongue at that, telling him not to do that. “Is that wrong, though, Derek? That I, uh, like you?” He adds. “The kind that Scott says like how sometimes his mom really like _like_ a boy.”

Derek snorts because that’s such playground talk—like like. He nuzzles into Stiles’ temple instead, breathes in the bubble gum shampoo he’s missed and there’s a smidge of salty after bite of clean sweat. “No, of course not. It’s never wrong, Stiles, to like a boy. Or a girl. I promise. But, other people will think that it’s wrong, though. That _we’re_ wrong.”

The law, for one.

“Why?” He asks.

“Because—” Derek starts, shifting awkwardly when the drying come starts to stick on his pubes. “I’m not good for you, Stiles, but I’ve tried staying away. I did, for one week. The last week, that’s why I haven’t been around. I’m not a bad person, but I’m not good either. You just—you’re my weakness and my strength.”

“Well,” Stiles harrumphs, throwing his arms around Derek again and pulling him into a hug. “You’re my best friend now and I like you a lot. It’s that easy.”

“It’s—” He sighs. “I’ll explain it to you soon enough. Properly, okay?”

“Okay. Promise?”

“Promise,” Derek holds out his little finger for Stiles to hook onto. “Alright, I gotta wash up a little. Getting a little weird with the—um, yeah. You probably wouldn’t even know. But, I’ll be quick. I’ll get a refill of the popcorn too.”

He struggles up from the couch, watching Stiles flail over the empty space, lengthening his entire body out on it, putting his arms behind his head. Derek has control—he has, so he starts to walk away although albeit awkwardly when Stiles yells out a, “I want the buttered ones, okay? Not salted!”

Okay, maybe Derek like _likes_ Stiles a lot too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize. I have this condition where I procrastinate the ever loving shit out of writing but tis' be a long chapter! I honestly started this fic with this exact smut scene and I don't know what exactly happened, the plot just decided to vomit itself at me and suddenly I have like 28k. What the fuck. I really, *really* need to learn how to write PWP from the get-go. But, thank you for all your lovely comments. They mean the whole world to me, especially as I have been very uninspired by the fandom's wank the last few days. They keep me going :*


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

 

It’s Friday.

The temperature is pelting its last vestiges of summer heat onto Derek; kissing lazy tendrils of warmth that seeps into his already sweat clammy skin. He’s foregone the jeans today after he was done with his morning shower. Instead, has on a pair of fitting light navy shorts and thrown on with a basic white tank to cool off further.

Derek’s picking up some juice in town before heading over to the Stilinski’s. He’s getting John green plum juice, which also is sort of a silent _‘I know we promised dinner but I’m here a little bit earlier which I hope you don’t notice as it’s barely even noon’_ type of juice.

It may prove futile, though.

He’s also considering on getting Stiles a surprise orange juice (without pulp, of course) to make his late morning, and maybe as a peace offering for the past week.

A light shudder courses down his back when Derek thinks back to an incident two weeks ago. Stiles and he got into a mildly heated argument, although amusing on some degree, about pulp in juices.

Derek’s always been a pulp guy. He likes the texture, not overly chewy like aloe vera always is, or smooth like grass jelly. He likes it mostly because it stays coating on his tongue long after the drink is finished—sort of like come does. (He doesn’t tell that to Stiles, though.)

Stiles, however, likes it creamy with a dollop of pressed juice foam at the top.

(His mind _may_ have gotten into the gutter then.)

As Derek  approaches the porch of the Stilinski’s, double fisting John and Stiles’ juices, etches of guilt steadily creeps up on him as he pads through the front lawn. It’s not as though he smashed his head against a wall and completely forgotten what happened the day before yesterday with Stiles, nor has he been actively avoiding thinking about it.

He tried, but how could he?

It’s constantly being replayed at the forefront of his mind, enabling a restless sleep the last two nights. It’s a staccato of Stiles, Stiles, and _Stiles._ As he tosses and turns, (Stiles), or while he brushes his teeth and flosses in-between them, (Stiles), and even while he ties his shoelaces ( _Stiles, Stiles, Stiles_ ).

He feels a little on edge, like his skin has been drawn tight with bundling nerves and brimming arousal, stretched and taut under sinew and muscle. It’s almost like an itch that’s been imbedded into the marrow of his bones, impossible to tug at.

It’s faintly similar to the first few years of puberty. When his dick was constantly rod stiff, leaving trails of dried pre-come at the front of his briefs that mocks him as he starts doing his own laundry. Despite that, no matter how many pillows he manages to hump onto, or have a saliva slicked hand wrapped around his girth—he just can’t jerk out the static arousal of his system.

Like, it’s not enough. Never enough.

Fuck, if anything at all, Derek _can’t_ stop thinking about it.

Stiles was the sweetest of pleasure, all dainty and house warmed as he was settled on his lap, oddly pliant in contrast to his thrumming, usual personality. The harsh clashing of their laboured breaths while Derek rutted his fattened dick against Stiles’ untouched ass, chasing for his impending doom.

Or, the way Stiles fitted against him either.

The kid’s all soft, youthful curves pressed against the firmness of Derek’s long, abled torso. His fingers had dug into the folding of chub collecting at Stiles’ hips which fanned out to his thighs, meaty and pale under the soft fabric of his boy shorts. Even the gentlest of touch, a lingering sweep of knuckles against Stiles’ cheek, all smooth skin and baby fat clinging to the soft frame of his face, is enough to send him into a spiral of faint mortification.

He can’t rid of those images and he can’t even blame Stiles for it. _Never_ for it. Not now, not ever, really.

Not after he got that teasing taste of boy sweat hanging at the tip of his tongue. Stiles isn’t one that could be easily forgotten, pushed to the back of his mind like the handful of teenage tricks he had framed in some dank back alley back in New York.

Derek just hasn’t had much time to really reflect on it. He’s spent all day yesterday in the study, finalizing the bookstore’s blueprints and layout. He directed all that antsy spur of energy into getting things done—procrastination isn’t his middle name, mind you.

That, and he sort of really wants the bookstore to be done up as quickly as it can before school completely sweeps Stiles out of their summer’s haze.

Derek peeks out the corner of his shoulder to make sure that the cranky old lady that neighbours the Stilinski’s isn’t peering through her windows, muttering curse words at him as she so normally does, and only then that he discreetly adjusts himself with his forearm.

Well, _at least_ he’s cleared from an early age erectile dysfunction. Not much could be said about her husband.

He then nudges the front door with his elbow which quickly follows with the bellow of clumsy footsteps and a high pitched yell of _‘I’ll get it, dad!’_

Derek’s heart contributes closely with a stampede of _Stiles-thud, Stiles-thud, Stiles-thud_.

It’s quite exhilarating.

Barely a second later, the door gets flung open with a long bang and instead of being welcomed by what Derek earlier pictured while getting juice (John alerted with a gun pointed at his crotch meanwhile two other deputies are backing him up because he apparently saw everything that happened on Wednesday through some hidden nanny camera), but nope.

It’s just Stiles there, fingers twisted in front of him and his shoulders hunching in, making him look even smaller than usual. Stiles is barely scraping four feet tall (on a good day) which means Derek always has to tilt his head down just to maintain eye contact with the boy but—fuck all of that. Semantics, those are.

They don’t matter.

Stiles’ age? Or the large fifteen year gap that hangs on Derek’s conscience like the worst to-be prosecution? None of it.

However, what _does_ matter is: this boy.

This wonderment of a child that has taken over his dreams and out of them, infiltrates parts of his life with his usual get-go rowdiness that always make the world seem a little too quiet in its solemn nature. Stiles _is_ the beacon of this small town and it frustrates Derek, terrifies him on most days, because this… _kid_ makes him re-evaluate everything that had once held importance in question.

Said boy is also wearing his heart in a huge, chummy grin pasted on his face. It makes his eyes squinty small while the apples of his cheeks flush in that pretty pink Derek has been bringing up to jerk off for the past month.

What really makes his heart palpitate though; melting away all that lingering guilt he held moments prior is that Stiles looks— _ecstatic?_ to see him, instead of being frightened away by his actions on that Wednesday evening.

The tenseness that was holding at his shoulders previously dissipates slowly.

“Hi!” Stiles chirps in greeting. His hair is askew and damp, making the tips curl out. Derek’s hand itches to go and press them down, flattening it. “You’re early!”

Derek coughs sheepishly as he steps through the threshold. “G’morning, Stiles.”

Stiles echoes him with a toothy grin before he tells, “I, uh, hard your car coming through the driveway while I was taking a shower so… I didn’t wash with soap.” He lowers his voice, giggling a little. “Don’t tell dad, tho’. He’d make me take another shower. With soap this time.” He grimaces.

Derek tries to pull out a stoic expression out of his ass but he feels the moment his jaw goes slack.

 _Don’t, Hale._ Derek berates. _You have more control than this. Don’t think of Stiles naked. But— a_ naked _Stiles. Completely nude. Bare of all clothes. Stripped down to just pale skin and the scatter of darkened freckles dotting his petite little body that’s all soft and yearning Derek’s palm to the fleshiest parts._

He picks his jaw back up and tries for nonchalant this time, ducking down slightly with a whispered tone. It comes out huskier than he expects. “You know what they call boys that bathe without soap, kid?”

Stiles blinks up at him owlishly, stunted.

Derek feels like the big, bad wolf right now, especially with this _hunger_ festering under his skin for the little boy in front of him. Fuck. Someone really should throw him into a cell and swallow the key, or something. Isn’t he in the home of a deputy? Where the fuck is John to haul him away and have him locked up with the other messed up criminals of society?

“Uh…” Stiles contemplates, rubbing at his chin before he pouts, letting out a soft harrumph. “I give up. I don’t know. What are they?”

 _A dirty boy_ , Derek wants to say. The words are already hanging at the tip of his tongue, taunting, but instead he stutters out with a, “ _Well_ , they’re undeserving of this delicious orange juice that I _specially_ got it for _someone.”_

Stiles mock cries, pointing at one of the cups in his hands dramatically. “You mean—you got orange juice? _For me_?” Then he ushers closer to Derek, throwing the idea of personal space out of the front door as he grabs him by the forearm. His fingertips don’t even meet as they curl on them. “ _But!_ But, Dur-ek, I was just so excited to see you! You can’t take away my orange juice.”

“Stiles!” John yells, interrupting Derek’s reply. His voice sounds hollow, distant, like it’s coming from upstairs. “What did I say about talking to strangers at the door?”

Stiles gives him a look saying _it’s not over, miste_ r and then bellows, “Derek’s the one at the door, dad!”

Derek’s about to open his mouth to have his presence validated when Stiles suddenly pricks his nails into his arm, earning a bite of pain that tingles on the small of his skin that probably have tiny half-moon indentations.

“Now, _Dur_ -ek, orange juice. _Gimme_.”

Derek breathes out a laugh, amused because apparently Stiles reckons that some sort of mild infliction of pain would have him surrendering, handing over the juice that easily. Not quite. If anything, he’s quite a hard ass.

“What are we? Cave people now?” He plays along though. “ _Orange juice. No. Stiles_.”

“C’ _moooon_ ,” Stiles whines, eyes batting up at him and thick, dark lashes shadowing against his cheeks. This kid would put Jessica Rabbit to shame. “You bought it for me! Wait—” He pauses haltingly. “There’s none of that gross stuff, right? Because, you know I hate pulp.”

Derek shakes his head, grinning with a smidge of smugness. “Nope. Just how you like it. Foamy at the top and still chilled since I got it ten minutes ago.”

Stiles shakes his arm with a little more force this time, although the impact of a ten year old forcefulness pales in comparison to a fully grown adult who works out quite regularly. Derek’s barely shaken by it which makes Stiles even more agitated.

He weeps out an outraged groan, stomping his feet for emphasis. “I’ll share my lunch with you! Promise.” Derek’s not easily taken by bribery either. “Dad said he’s going to be making PB&J’s since its Friday.”

Okay, fine, he _may_ be swayed by said bribery.

In his defence, it’s been a long time since he had a peanut butter and jam sandwich. The last he remembered was during the first year of college when he and Laura were still getting situated in a rented apartment in Brooklyn, practically living off cup noodles and the odd loaf of bread every then and so.

“Christ,” John grunts, padding doing the stairs in a leisure manner. “What’s all this commotion going on here? I nearly thought there was a wet market in my hall. I couldn’t even hear what was being said when I was taking a work call.” He then makes brief eye contact with Derek. “Nice to see you here, Derek. You’re… early.”

“Uh, I got you and Stiles some juice?” Derek replies sheepishly instead,  lightly jostling John’s drink to make a point. “Green plum for you.”

“Ah, in good timing too.” John smiles gratefully as he plucks the drink out of Derek’s hand. “Once you reach my age, bowel movements aren’t as frequent as you think it would be. Thanks, son.” He slurps a sip from the straw and draws a grimace, “Maybe next time we’ll just stick to regular apples, alright?”

Derek nods, “Noted.”

Stiles probably sees this exchange between him and his father as an opportune moment as he lunges for the orange juice on Derek’s other hand with a loud battle cry. Derek, however and fortunately, catches it in his peripheral and probably slightly deafened too, swiftly snatches his arm up that leaves Stiles grasping onto thin air.

“Cheater!” Stiles wails and then angles his body slightly at John, “ _Daaad_! Tell Derek to give me my juice!”

His hands, however, are still gripped onto Derek’s forearm in a vice clutch, tightening minutely as though he’s afraid that Derek may turn and run back to his car with Stiles’ juice, roaring manically with triumph. Or something.

(Derek blames his active imaginative skills due to Stiles.)

John quirks a brow before he shrugs. “You must have done something. So… not my problem, kid.” Then he plops himself down on _the_ couch, settling his juice on the coffee table while he reaches over for the remote.

Derek grins smugly down at Stiles.

Stiles throws his arms up in defeat, “Even my _father’s_ against me! And I am his flesh and blood. This is not one of my good days.” He juts his bottom lip out, showing his distaste.

Although Derek may often wax (quite) poetically about Stiles’ maturity and all that, the boy is still a preteen. With that come its usual prepubescent traits. The frequency of having an odd stain or two on their tees, or knobbly knees grazed with bruises and mud grassy shins. That aside, the virtue of patience is something even the best of kids aren’t able to quite hone to its full potential at that age.

The kid storms his way over to the arm chair, shuffling onto it while his legs dangle half way off the carpeted floor. He sulks directly at John’s direction, arms crossed. “Who even _does_ that, dad?” Then wheezes out a noise of annoyance. “It’s like having Christmas presents under the tree but never opening it even after Christmas is over!”

He then pointedly looks over at Derek who’s still lingering at the front door, slippers finally off his feet.

“ _You_ —” Stiles points out, eyes narrowing. “—are the _Grinch_ of orange juices. You’ve ruined them for me! _Forever_ , _Dur_ -ek. That’s a long time. Now, whenever I think of OJ’s, I’ll never, _ever_ feel happiness again. Ever.” He then flings his upper body in the most dramatic sense so that he’s flopped over against the arm rest.

Derek must have some sort of screw loose in his head. Or, all of them, really, because there’s this surge of heated _fondness_ wrapping around his chest like heat radiating off a fresh batch of ironed laundry. It’s too much to handle on a late Friday morning. Especially, since Stiles is pulling out all the stops on being way too fucking adorable with his pouty— _everything_.

“I’ll let you know that I would make a great Grinch.” Derek retaliates, walking over to join John on the couch with an air of casualty because he totally didn’t do anything on said couch. Nope. Not on this very seat. Where he definitely didn’t soaked his briefs through with come because of his underage (god, _severely_ underage son).

Derek clears his throat, swallowing down that thickening of saliva coating against his upper palate. “The best, actually.”

Meanwhile, John is dividing up his focus on both the television that’s broadcasting some local Californian news and them. Whenever he glances over, an amused expression flitters over his face like he’s enjoying their little drama session. It’s also intimidating, on some level, because Derek can see the silent _‘your spilt milk, your clean up’_ underlain his features.

Kind of like a _: you break it; you buy it, bucko_ —except Stiles is definitely not for sale.

There’s a brief, uneasy tension settling in the hall, surrounding the three of them as nobody speaks after Derek’s last words. Stiles is still slumped over the chair, making these unhappy grunts ever y few seconds to make known that he’s still pissed at Derek. It’s too quiet, especially since Stiles permeates everything that isn’t cool silence.

John’s the one that breaks it with, “ _Oi_ , kid.”

Stiles grumbles out reluctantly in acknowledgement, voice muffled where his face is smushed against the side of the armchair.

“Have you said the magic word yet?” John asks. “Wait—you _do_ know what that is, right?”

A miffed wheeze leaves Stiles as he struggles up, plopping upright on the seat and his face completely flushed red. “Of course I do! I’m smart.”

“And have you said it, then?”

Stiles darts his eyes over at Derek, a smidge of panic lighting up those bright browns. Derek is not cooing internally. No, he’s not.

“… _Maybe_.” Stiles answers warily. “But, still! Even if I said it, Derek still wouldn’t give it to me! Because— _because_ …” He trails off, clamping his mouth shut when he realizes that the truth would lead him taking another bath.

It still baffles Derek that the concept of kids not liking their shower time. He likes showering plenty, even since young. More so after he discovered the use of his dick, when the bathroom gets a tad too steamy and he starts sporting a chub due to the heat of the water.

“…Because?”

“ _Because_!” Stiles gestures his arms wildly, eyes wide as he seeks out to Derek for help. “Uh, ‘cause Derek’s a mean old lug!”

Derek whistles lowly under his breath, not overly impressed but there’s still a gentle smile on his lips because it’s _Stiles_. He’s been called worse by Laura, anyway. “Throwing me under the bus? Never thought I’d see the way. You’ve learnt well from me, young Padawan.”

Stiles beams up at him, seemingly settled with the praise and momentarily forgetting about the whole orange juice debacle.

John laughs at him, though. “You’ve got him all wrapped around your tiny finger, Hale. That, or my boy’s taken one too many falls from that skateboard you got him and he’s lost touch with his bark.”

“Hey,” Stiles whines. “Those falls gave me battle scars, dad. We both know it.” Then shows off a huge scab that’s starting to peel at his elbow, tinges of dusty yellow bruising around it.

“Whatever you say, kid.” John teases. “If the ground was your enemy, that is.”

Stiles scrunches his nose at him, blowing out an offended noise and pointedly decides to ignore his dad from now on. Since his dad was his only back-up support for Operation: Get OJ from the Grinch, Stiles quite reluctantly concedes defeat and thusly, probably comes up with a spurred solution to make it up to Derek.

He limply shuffles off the arm chair and then crawls on the floor, hands and knees, to where Derek’s sitting on the couch which—yeah, _nope._

Not going there. Not even gonna look at the boy right now.

It’s awful.

Stiles tugs insistently at the hem of his shorts, wanting Derek’s full attention which he hesitantly flicks a glance down to where he’s situated. The boy’s shoulders are hunched down, making him appear even smaller than he usually is.

“ _Dur-_ ek,” He starts, wetting his lips. “Could I have my orange juice now?” He asks sweetly and pleads as an after-thought. “ _Please?_ I’ll share my sandwich with you. Promise.”

Derek tries not to react too greatly since John might be overlooking but his breathy voice gives him away, anyway.  “Uh—yeah. Okay. Sure. Sandwiches. Are good. Great” He internally scuffs himself on the head. “Right, juice,” Then hands the cup over to Stiles who is already making grabby hands.

He’s weak, that’s what he is.

Stiles, as per usual, is oblivious to Derek’s melt down, of course. Instead, the boy squeaks out enthusiastically, receiving the cup like it was an Olympic trophy before he wraps his lips around the straw, slurping happily.

He has a content smile tugging at the corners while he sits with his knees tucked snugly against his chest, cup balancing in between the dip of his knees. Stiles mouths around the straw, “’Fank you, Dee, you’s ‘zee best _est_.”

John shakes his head, mumbling quietly in his usual, affectionate tone that he always directs to Stiles’ odd antiques. “ _Bunch of kids_.”

Derek’s heart swells a little. And maybe his traitorous dick does too because he accidentally chances a glance over to Stiles who seems to be using only his tongue to get the straw back into his mouth instead of using his damn fingers.

He swiftly covers it with a throw pillow that was tucked behind him before John, or hell, Stiles manages to get an eyeful of an indecent bulge. Hey, at least he has boundaries. Not much could be said about Stiles’ awful—terribly, really, tongue.

-

They spend the next two hours channel surfing with Stiles on remote duty. It’s been quite hectic since all young and mature Stilinski have the tendency to veto whichever favoured show was put on.

John seemingly prefers to kick back with any news station but then Stiles would mope and whine until its back to cartoons. Or a violent-heavy movie that he mildly gets away if John’s distracted with his phone.

Derek, however, is content with letting either Stiles or John call the shots for home entertainment.

It was one of the rules Talia enforced on a daily basis when he was younger. The person who was holding onto the remote got to pick their desired show and anyone who doesn’t agree gets to go without evening television. They even had a _roster_ so that everyone had their fair share of getting the remote.

Ridiculous, he knows, but nobody would butt heads.

It’s only in the last fifteen minutes of the two hours when father and son both finally reached a mutual, not-so-silent agreement with some mockumentary about dinosaurs. It’s getting pretty interesting, too.

Derek can see from his peripheral that John is getting absorbed to the English speaking narrator pulling out the moderately biting one-liners meanwhile his phone is long forgotten against his thigh. That is, until Stiles lets out this long, high-pitched whine from the armchair.

“D _aaad_ ,” Stiles whines, gathering John’s whole attention. He shuffles around the seat so that he’s no longer contorted in his previous, absurd position. Thank fucking Jesus for the little things. “M’hungry. Feed your starving child.”

John shoots him an indifferent stare. “Didn’t you just finish your juice?”

“I’m a growing boy!” Stiles says defensively. “Also, it was juice. Not food.” He points out strongly, gesturing to the now empty cup idling on the coffee desk. “Melissa said that a hearty meal for boys my age should have solid food. _So_ ,” He drawls. “I think I was promised a PB&J. Derek, too!”

John grumbles under his breath, “You’d think getting a kid would mean that I’ll have more opportunities to enforce child labour during my days off. You’d be wrong, Hale.” Then he pushes himself off the couch.

Stiles stifles a giggle behind his palm, hair sweeping over his eyes. “Go be sad about your lazy kid while making me and Derek our sandwiches.” Then adds half-heartedly with a flying smooch, “Thank you! Ruv’ you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” John says flippantly, padding away. “Love you too, kid.”

Derek tracks John’s retreating form as he heads towards the kitchen, worrying his bottom lip. Sure, John may have invited him for a meal ( _an evening meal_ , his guilt sharply points out) but this just doesn’t sit right with him.

He’s been brought up to be courteous and gracious whenever present in someone else’s home. It’s probably ingrained in the Hale veins— _thou shall not sit back and relax like thy own crib_. Okay, maybe not so much of Laura, since she leaves traces of her even in public malls, but she doesn’t count. Not in the scheme of manners, that is.

“Uh—John?” Derek calls out awkwardly, cringing at how raspy his voice sounds as he follows him into the kitchen. John hums, acknowledging. “I, um, don’t mind making the sandwiches.” He offers with a shrug. “It’s the least I can do since I’m, well, here this early.”

“ _Ah_ , I didn’t even notice it was only noon.” John teases, grinning as he picks two slices of bread from the packed loaf. “It’s fine, Derek. I’ve already started, so you just haul your ass in there and accompany the wretch that is my son before he starts pulling out the crocodile tears act.”

Derek smiles at that because it’s true. Stiles’ a people person, always been since he’s gotten to know the boy. “No—no. C’mon, I insist.” He picks up the jar of jam from the kitchen counter as a fit of protest when John goes for it. “They’re just sandwiches. I mean, they’re no Michelin type recipes. I won’t screw it up that badly.”

“I’ll have you know Stiles is a lot tougher than Gordon Ramsay. Particular, that kid.” John informs warningly but there are still laughter lines running faint at the corner of his eyes. “Alright, alright. We’ll compromise. Don’t get yourself all twisted up, Hale.”

Derek exhales a sheepish snort.

“So, you’ll do lunch and I’ll make dinner. That good with you?”

“Sounds great.” Derek nods, complying.

John lets out a soft breath, scratching at his lightly dusted chin. “If only Stiles had half the manners you’ve got,” He starts, voice admirable. “I’d probably save myself from a possible, near-future high blood pressure.”

Derek grins, heat creeping up the back of his nape. He’s not used to receiving compliments. Laura always used the tough love approach and Derek is familiar with that. “Well, to be fair—Sir, Stiles’ a great kid. Smart, too. You’ve brought him up right.” He gives his honest opinion. “If I ever fathered a child in the future, I’d want them to be exactly like Stiles too.”

What was he even _saying_? Jesus, shut up, Derek. John could probably _smell_ the crush he’s harbouring for his son from where he’s standing. Or, probably getting funny ideas that Derek might want to kidnap Stiles for his own—not that he would. Just to clarify.

John smiles, albeit wistful, exhaling out a shaky sigh. “That’s probably all Claudia’s doing, though. My, uh, wife.” He pauses. “She—passed away a few years back, but all that nurturing is definitely none of mine. Only thing he got out of me is probably that quick tongue.”

Derek’s familiar with death of loved ones. He’d come from a big, extended family both from both Charles and Talia’s side, and with annual wedding events comes the abhorrent funerals. He knows that it’s never nice to press on with sympathy encouragement and usually, the warmest condolence would be to acknowledge it and start up a conversation on a different topic.

“ _Still_ ,” Derek persists, a small smile on his lips. “He’s a great kid. You should be proud.”

“I am,” John exhales softly. “Y’know, parents are always going on about how their kids are all that, but Stiles really is something else, isn’t he?”

“Of course I’m something else!” Stiles yips, squeezing in between them and making his presence known with a boisterous cackle. He’d probably gotten bored from being left alone in the hall. “I’m _special_ , dad. Like the Avengers! With super powers and all that.”

“Oh yeah?” John asks, playing along. “Super powers for _farting_ , you mean?”

Stiles does a great fake sniff, “I’ll have you know that it’s a _talent_ to flatuate while sleeping.”

John ruffles his kid’s hair, almost close to a noogie. “You’re _something_ alright, kid.” Stiles petulantly bats his hands away and then sweeps the hair that’s covering his eyes, patting the top down. “Okay, there’s definite overcrowding in this kitchen. C’mon, get.”

“I thought you were making us sandwiches?” Stiles asks his dad while digging a finger into Derek’s side because he’s a little brat.

“Derek offered.” John answers and places both hands on Stiles’ shoulder as to guide him out of the kitchen. “It’s a compromise. He’s doing your sandwiches and I’ll make us dinner.”

Stiles shrugs away from his father’s hold, eyes going narrow with dubiousness at Derek. “Are you really, _really_ sure that Dur-ek knows how to make PB &J’s? Because I like ‘em spurci—speaci— _sepectially?_ ”

“Specifically?” Derek offers with an amused chuckle. “Don’t worry. Your dad, here, told me you like mustard with them. That right?”

“N _ooo_ ,” Stiles scrunches his face, features twisting before he goes to jab Derek again at the side, a little tougher than before. “No mustard! Yuck. _Blergh_.” He pulls a really ludicrous face, eyes going wonky before he continues saying in a tone of finality, “Okay. Derek. I’ll help you with _my_ sandwiches or not you’re going to put weird stuff in it. I know you, ya’ _poop head_.”

John swiftly takes that as his cue to leave but not before throwing a casual, “He’s your problem now, Hale,” over his shoulder as he leaves the kitchen, laughter trailing behind like a shadow.

Derek’s pretty okay with it.

“ _So_ ,” Stiles commands attention with a clap of his hands. “You need to wash your hands first. Always gotta wash your hands before touching food. My mom taught me that. Said there are germs that will attack your entire body, turning us into z _aaa_ mbies.”

Derek scoff-laughs at that, “Mm, but taking a bath is a problem?”

“Hey,” Stiles voices, tone gruff with petulance. “You’re on my side! Don’t side with that—traitor.” He peeks out to where John is already settled on the couch, picking up where he left off with the documentary. “I mean, baths are nice but I’ve got to take ‘em _twice_! Every day! Do you see my problem now?”

Derek turns up the faucet, a mocking gasp escaping him. “That— _wow_ , sounds like an absolute chore, Stiles. Who does your dad think he is? Making you take _two_ baths a day?” He scoffs. “That’s just— _madness_.”

“I _know_!” Stiles squeaks, bouncing almost giddily since he’s got Derek _totally_ convinced about the travesty of twice daily showers. He slides up beside him, toes tipping a little, to get his hands washed wet in the basin. “ _See,_ you get me. That’s why you’re cooler than my dad. Scott has it worse, though.”

“Is that right?” Derek asks feigning slight interest and catches Stiles off guard by splashing water onto Stiles’ arms because, well, he can. And it’s just delightful getting Stiles all worked up.

“ _Hey!_ ” Stiles yelps crossly, “No splashing! You’re gonna get me wet!” As soon as Derek puts up his hands, conceding, Stiles goes to wipe his hands on the back of his tank, a cheeky ‘aha!’ leaving him. Yeah, apparently brattiness is contagious.

“As I was saying, _Dur_ -ek, before you turned evil,” Stiles starts dryly, eyes narrowing at him. “Scott definitely leads a sad life, m’friend. Melissa makes him take—guess! Nope, okay, never mind. I’ll just tell you. She makes him take _three_ baths—sometimes four, if we get to play outside.”

“Ah,” Derek drawls with a smidge of mocking sympathy. “The horror of bath bubbles.”

“S’only fun when you get to make a Santa beard with it tho’!” Stiles quips merrily, stroking his imaginary bearded bubbles in a sagely manner. “You don’t need bubbles since you’ve got the real deal.”

“Mm, true.” Derek hums, scratching at the coarse grains pebbling on his chin. “You’ll probably be able to grow one once you’re older. Maybe… a little taller, too?”

He receives a biting smack on the arm, “I’m tall for my age, okay!”

“Right,” Derek rolls his eyes in the fondest of manner that even he’s suffering from the whiplash of it. “And the sky is pink.”

“It can be pink when it wants to,” Stiles adds smartly then sulks when he finally concedes that his argument is weak. “Meanie,” He tuts, pinches Derek at the waist.

“Alright, alright.” Derek relents with a grin, fingers rubbing over the sore area. “I won’t tease. How bout we get started on making those PB&J’s. What do you say?”

Stiles agrees with a gusto yell and almost trips when he goes to get the toaster out of the cabinet.

Derek tries (he really does) his best not to laugh. Or, burst out into a crushingly embarrassing song that _coos_ endearment for this kid. He’s already tipping the scales of being a legitimate paedophile (or way over the scales), he doesn’t need his life to be a spin off for Glee. So, he sticks with laughing because that’s safer.

Stiles elbows him on the ribs as pay back.

-

When they’re done making their lunches and finally exit with three plates (Stiles insisted on making one for his dad), John is no longer in the hall. Derek lets out a curious noise at that but, Stiles, oblivious to his father’s non-presence, plops back onto the armchair and finally settles down with his food.

He sinks his mouth into the sandwich with an overly large bite and makes an alarmingly, loud moan as he chews. Derek thinks of everything gruesome that he can think off his head (that cake fart video Laura’s classmate showed him, two girls one cup, also oddly by the same classmate, and pain Olympics—he’s not even gonna talk about that one).

“Okay,” Stiles yips, startling Derek out of his absolutely horrific reverie. “I’ll admit. This tastes a lot better than my dad’s.”

“It’s the secret ingredient.” Derek waggles his eyebrows. “That shall never be said out loud. Not even to Scott. My mom passed down that family recipe to me.”

“Y’r mom’s a genius, then.” Stiles says with a mouthful of bread spilling out. “Do ya th’unk she remembers me?”

“Yeah, she does.” Derek says after he swallows his own bite because he has table etiquette. “You’re not one to forget, kid.”

Before Stiles can make any comments, John finally steps into the hall after noisily padding down the stairs. He releases a deep sigh, hands raking through his hair. Stiles stares at him nonplussed, curiosity quickly flitting over his face while Derek’s throat absolutely burns with questions. He’s never seen John this… worked up? Not under his roof, that is.

“What’s wrong?” Derek inquires when it seems John isn’t going to share.

John settles onto the couch beside him, face grim and tight. “Work happened, that’s what.” He eyes the untouched plate sitting on the coffee table but doesn’t go for it. “It’s like the guys down at the station don’t understand that I’ve got a kid to take care of. Or, the concept that I have the weekends off.”

Stiles frowns, patting his half-eaten sandwich down onto the plate. “You gotta go _pew pew_?”

“Yeah,” John answers guiltily, not looking at Stiles. Derek wishes he could do something in this situation but feels utterly hopeless as he watches father and son exchange glum expressions. “Probably gotta do overtime too since the others aren’t familiar with LA cops.”

“You’re making the drive downtown?” Derek says, voice raised and alarmed. “That’s a three hour drive, sir.”

“It’s all politics.” John says, hand gesturing with an indifferent wave. “They caught a man earlier this morning.” He starts explaining. “That’s not under our jurisdiction so we can’t do anything about it, legally, unless we hand him over to the Los Angeles force.”

Derek makes a noise of acknowledgement and asks, “What did he do?” while Stiles questions with interest, “Did he steal something, dad? Like that guy you caught last month?”

“Somewhat.” John answers shortly. He only mouths at Derek when Stiles isn’t looking at him, finally allocating his focus back onto his forgotten sandwich, to what he makes out being: child harassment.

Derek gulps thickly, brows raised.  “W—who’s it?”

John goes to paw at his face, pinching the bridge of his nose as he decides if he’s going to share that information. He finally comes to with a decision, muttering the words, really. “One of the bus drivers that works with Stiles’ school.”

Stiles quirks up at that from, probably because he heard his name, while Derek breathes out a shaky, “ _Jesus_.”

Derek tries keep an aloof face that doesn’t give away too much of what he’s feeling. Currently, it’s a toss-up between genuine fear of getting caught, right here in a deputy’s living hall, and insurmountable disdain. He’s not—it’s not child harassment between him and Stiles, right?

It isn’t—can’t be. Derek’s not—he can’t ever picture out a situation where he’d consciously hurt the boy, let alone harass, or _abuse_ Stiles. Not even in the worst of circumstances. But, whatever happened on that Wednesday evening was harassment, though, wasn’t it?

Stiles had no idea what was happening. He didn’t as Derek clearly remembered Stiles whimpering out in confusion while he touched intimate areas because he’s—he’s a fucking _asshole_ , that’s what he is. He took from Stiles, even though he’s asserted with strong conviction that he’d never do just that. Hell, Derek should have been the one that got caught instead of sitting here, beside a man of the law, chatting about another paedophile’s demise.

“I—” Derek starts but gets cut off by John.

“Who knows how many kids this guy has touched?” John grits, hands fisted by his side while his eyes are a dark shade of ferocity. “Or—or, if he’s ever approached my kid before? My _boy_. My _only_ son.”

Stiles darts anxious looks between his dad and Derek, bewildered by their on-going conversation. “What’s happening?” He asks Derek timidly which he gives a light shake of his head. Now he understands why his parents used to do that whenever he walked into his parents chatting with relatives, probably something grown-up that they didn’t want to discuss with him nosing around.

“At least,” Derek stutters a little. “At least he’s caught now, right? There’s evidence and stuff?”

“He had _tapes_ , that son of a—” John spits and then releases a deep breath he was holding, hands going lax. “Sorry, I just—lost my head a bit there. Sometimes it’s… hard to separate work and personal life. Especially when they collide too closely.”

“No, no. It’s fine.” Derek assures mildly even though his heart is pummelling against his chest. “I was the same way with architecture. Always got too worked over by the smallest of things.”

John smiles weakly at him, probably more for courtesy rather than a semblance of happiness. “Hale, I know I promised you a dinner but I don’t think it’s going to work out tonight.” He blows a breath out. “Rain check on that?”

“Of course, it’s no problem, Sir.”

“Okay, can someone tell me what’s going on?!” Stiles screeches, commandeering both their attention on him. He gives a sheepish pout, “I don’t like being left out of things!”

“Sorry kid, y’know. It’s adult things.” John says lightly, grimacing. “I’ll tell you once you’re a little older, okay?”

“You always say that.” Stiles mopes, crossing his arms, plate jostling on his knees. “You’re gonna get all old and forgetful then you’ll never tell me! I know your plan, dad. I can see through all of it.”

John laughs, finally, eyes crinkling. Derek prefers this John to the one just a moment ago. The Stilinski’s are good people and they should always be surrounded by happiness whenever possible. “Alright, I promise to pen it down so my senile brain won’t fail you. Okay?”

Stiles harrumphs, “I don’t see you writing anything down.”

“Jeez, kid, if you had a greying moustache, I’d mistake you for a cop.”

Stiles grins and sing-songs when John pulls out his phone to note something down, “Only learnt it from the best, _daddy-o_!”

John waves his phone in front of him when he’s done, showing Stiles the proof that he has noted it down on his cell.

Stiles, satisfied, leans back onto the chair and licks up the little smidges of peanut butter that’s stained on his plate. He peeks up, “Can I have your sandwich if you’re not going to eat it, dad?” Because, like, Derek’s PB&J is— _woah_.”

“Hands off the goods, Stiles.” John says warningly when Stiles’ grabby hands are nearing his plate. “Derek made it for me so it’s my sandwich to eat. Go make another one if you want another.”

Stiles fakes sniffle, “Here I thought that I was your favourite child.”

“You’re my _only_ child.”

“ _Pish-posh_ ,” Stiles waves off and then eyes greedily at Derek’s plate. “So, _Dur_ -ek, best friend of mine, would you like to share your sandwich with _moi_?” He ends with a horridly butchered French accent.

“When you say share,” Derek starts. “Do you mean _share_ , or for me to give you the whole thing?”

“ _Duh_ ,” Stiles answers, rolling his eyes. “The whole thing.”

Derek scoffs, “Nice try, kid but I’d only give you half of mine.”

Stiles thinks about it, probably weighing the pros and cons for a couple of seconds before he reluctantly huffs out, “ _Fine._ But, I call dibs on the bigger half.”

John, who’s been quiet the last few minutes as him and Stiles exchange easy banter, suddenly releases a disgruntled groan. He’s looking up from his phone and glances over to Derek almost… desperately. Or was it confliction? It’s a tough call to make.

Derek’s not really a scientist on body language, anyway.

John dismissively waves the phone his palm, saying. “Uh, Melissa just replied my text. Said she can’t take Stiles in tonight. Something ‘bout Scott and swimming?” He sighs heavily, body slumping. “I know this is—” He bites on his words and yeah, okay. Derek is pretty certain now that whatever his features were announcing was conflicted desperation.

Derek raises his brow as a silent _go on_.

“Derek,” He starts, scratching at his stubble before he shakes his head. “No. You know that you’re like family to us, right?”

It’s a rhetoric question but Derek shrugs his shoulders because, sure, John has candidly called him son a handful of times but the last time he was called precisely that was by Charles. Well, and everyone in this town knows how that story goes.

Anyway, it’s probably the right answer because John scoots to the edge of his seat, knee shaking.

“Sorry, it’s just this case is—” His eyes glazes over a little, searches for the right word. “It’s all—” Waves a hand around and then settles with, “— _bull crap_ and my son is my top priority to keep safe.” John takes in a shaky inhale. “You’ve proven to be a just man, Derek, and your mother, Talia, was an honest woman herself, as well. I’m still grateful for her when I was— I wasn’t right after my wife passed away.”

The room is thick with an uneasy quietness. Derek wishes for anything to break that tension. For Stiles to slice it up with a little joke, or anything, really. Just lighten up the gloom that has now overtaken the room.

“Mopey story aside,” John continues after a way too long beat. “Talia really helped out a lot. Melissa, too.” He says. “Ah hell, I’m beating ‘round the bush and getting all y’know. Just—I might have to cash in one more favour today and I know it’s extremely last minute.”

Derek doesn’t need John to spell it out to know what it is already. Neither does it lessen the guilt when he agrees.

-

John goes to prepare, although quite begrudgingly, once the documentary ends and the credits start to roll. The whole time while he’s putting on his pressed uniform, grumbling lowly under his breath, Stiles shuffles from the kitchen, to the hall and then loiters around the front door. Almost as if he doesn’t exactly know where to settle down.

Derek has only that _little_ much strength when it comes to repressing the urge to pull the kid into his lap and just—anchor the kid down. Have him steady against his chest until the nerves eventually bubble out from his system with tickles and laughter.

He doesn’t do any of that, of course.

Not with John highly stringed in light of recent events.

When John leaves, it’s with a mellow goodbye pressed onto Stiles’ forehead and a promise that he’ll be home soon. Then he eyes at Derek with a look that makes his balls shrivel up, “You take care of m’boy, alright, Derek?”

Derek nods, an imitation of an obedient pup and silences the unsaid _with my life, sir._

The garage door creaks shut and then the house hollows out with an odd sense of trepidation.

Stiles finally speaks a few beats later with his chin tucked down and eyes down casted.  “Do you think dad’s mad with me? Y’know, because he knows I secretly didn’t take a bath?”

Derek frowns, rushes out. “No. Of course not, Stiles. Why would you—”

“Because he’s not here?” He answers, almost snappishly. “Dad’s always here on the weekend! It’s father-son time. Especially since mom’s gone.” He wheezes out. “He’s angry with me, I just know it.”

“Hey,” Derek breathes out quietly, gently. “C’mere. Sit beside me.”

Stiles reluctantly nudges his way to Derek’s left on the couch, knocking sharp knees and elbows against him.

Derek hums a little, pats Stiles’ fingers where they’re twitching against his thighs but not lingering on the touch. It’s almost… wrong to touch him now. The nonsensical beat still continues, melts into the cascading silence around the house.

“Your dad’s not mad at you. He loves you.” Derek starts.

Stiles scoffs, “ _Well_ , if he loves me, he’d be here.”

“You know he didn’t want to go too.” Derek argues. “But, your dad’s out there doing good things, alright? He’s getting the bad guys to stay locked up so the people in this town would be safe.”

 _Hypocrite_ , his conscience raves

“Still—”

“I know for certainty that your dad will always choose you first, Stiles, but he’s got an important job, too. Know what that is?”

Stiles blinks up at him, eyes a little red and raw with indignation. “A cop?”

“No,” Derek grins, ruffling his hair up a bit. It earns him a hand batting but then a small, obscure smile starts to lift at the corners of Stiles’ lips and everything feels right again. “Being a hero, silly. Just like you are as Batman. Saving the city from villains and all that.”

Stiles furrows his brows, lips pursing, signifying him deep in thought. “Won’t he catch you too?” He asks timidly. “Because, like, you’re the joker and since dad is Batman, he’s gonna catch the bad guys!” His bottom lips trembles a little then he cries out. “I don’t want you to go to the bad place! That’ll mean you won’t get to play with me and Scott anymore!”

“Maybe,” Derek finally mutters and Stiles’ eyes widens. “He might, too. I’m not a very good person, kid. Especially after—” He sighs. “Wednesday. Not anymore.”

 _Abuser_ , his mind traitorously roars.

“You mean,” Stiles begins, licking his lips. “The one where we pinkie promised to keep it a secret?” His eyes are a little too bright, shining with some sort of glimmer of mischief. “When you touched my—” He lowers his voice. “My butt.”

“Yeah,” Derek says grimly, squeezing Stiles’ thigh. He shouldn’t, though and he retracts it like his palm grazed upon the dance of flames. “I’m not supposed to do that.”

“But, why?” Stiles asks, sidling closer to him. “I mean, dad sometimes used to do it when I was younger because he needed to wipe my butt after—y’know,” He giggles a little. “Number two.”

Derek chuckles because, well, yeah. Stiles’ laughter is a little addictive. No, he’s not his own personal brand of heroin. What is he? Seventeen and a socially awkward vampire? Okay, maybe just the socially awkwardness but everything else, yeah no.

“That’s okay.” Derek says patiently, trying to make Stiles understand. “He’s your dad. He’s allowed to touch like that.” Then he remembers those cases of parents who molest their kids, rape them in their sleep. Then he hurries to correct it, “Not in certain… circumstances where the touches aren’t innocent, though.”

Stiles smacks his tongue at him, confused. “I don’t understand, _Dur_ -ek. I mean, you’re sort of like my dad?” Derek does not groan internally. “Well, you’re more half-dad and half-super bestest friend to me, so you can touch me that way. I’m okay with it.”

Derek’s finger twitches, yearns to have a guiltless touch on this sweet kid. He smiles tightly, instead. “I wish it was as easy as that, baby boy.”

Stiles bites his bottom lip, murmurs out. “I liked it when you touched my butt, though. It was nice.” He tells, plays with Derek’s arm in faint circles. “Your hands are like, really, _really_ big.”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Derek groans.

Temptation is such an unjust sin, and sin, itself, comes by an entity that is a ten year old kid with stupid mop-like hair, freckles dotting across his shoulders and cheek while light eyes that bounces off the sun’s heat.

“Alright, let’s just—No, we’re gonna move on. Alright, baby boy? Do you wanna go swimming instead?” Derek rambles. “We could meet up with Scott and Melissa at the pool? That sounds good?”

Stiles scrunches up his nose, waves a hand dismissively. “Nah, at least I can hold this above his head for a week. That shows him for being a lousy best friend.” He grumbles low under his breath. “Best friend more like poop friend.”

“Let it all out, buddy.” Derek grins.

“I’m going to squeeze all the cookies out of him.” Stiles starts in a mock evil laughter. “I’ll even share it with you.”

“By _share_ , do you actually mean that this time or do I just get the crumbs?”

Stiles snorts, “I’ll leave you the best crumbs because you’re my _super_ best friend.”

“You’re actually the devil’s child, aren’t you?” Derek teases. “You put up the whole Bambi gig but then once you’ve gotten us on your side, bam, you’re gonna become turn all Ursula on everyone.”

“H _eeeey_ ,” Stiles pokes at his side which definitely did _not_ produce a _yelp_ of surprise out of Derek. Yeah, nope. “If I’m going to be a bad guy, I’d rather be the Joker. Just like you!”

Derek’s chest area shouldn’t feel all warm and gooey but unfortunately, it does.

“Well, then, I ought to teach you the basics of being all… _villainous_. C’mon, we don’t have all day.”

Stiles, of course, follows.

-

They spend the rest of the afternoon practicing little odd qualities that typical villains in Disney movies seem to have. Firstly, they do up a makeshift cape. An evil one, of course. Stiles’ a shade of forest green bed sheets that he stole out from his dad’s drawer meanwhile Derek has one of Stiles’ old sheets that has smiley, contorted worm alphabets on it.

Stiles says, “It adds flavour and it _totally_ suits you. Now, you have little wormy minions!” which Derek shoots him the deadliest glare while the kid practically wets himself with glee.

That little shit.

Once they have their capes secured against the back of their shirts (and Derek’s tank), they finally begin to conjure up their maniacal, wicked laughter because “We _need_ one, _Dur_ -ek. Every villain has one which means Stiles the Stinky Lord and Derek and the Evil Beard needs one too!”

Derek only catches himself mid cackle when he ponders of the odds if there really _is_ a nanny camera installed around the house and if John decides to upload this footage as blackmail because it _may_ probably go viral in about ten minutes. Okay, Laura might make it about five minutes what with her three maxed out Facebook accounts.

It’s also an understatement when Derek says they’re the _epitome_ of embarrassment. Fine. Him, probably more so but that’s because Stiles (reminder: little shit) used John’s hair gel to create a pair of hairy devil horns. Well, it was either that or hair plaiting which he successfully shut down in seconds only to be introduced by all that… eye batting.

He’s weak.

So, yeah, ten minutes in and Derek doesn’t have much ego intact but Stiles makes it up for it by busting his spleen open by literally embracing the famous internet lingo of rolling on the floor, laughing.

The bubble of laughter only start to wear out when Stiles’ stomach makes loud grumble which Derek takes that as his be a responsible adult cue to whip something up in the kitchen. Stiles wanted to go with an easy pizza take out but Derek disagrees, insists that he makes a mean mac and cheese.

Again, it’s a family recipe.

Stiles _loves_ it which only pleases Derek even further. There’s a sense of pride blooming warm in the center of his chest and probably something like fulfilment too. He’s never cooked for any of his dates before, lest embraced the whole nine yards of dating long term quirks.

This is— _nice._

The feeling quickly fades away when Stiles starts to _really_ love the meal.

He’s licking at the spoon, getting the bits of burnt cheese and pasta that he missed at the curved planes of the bowl even though he’s practically inhaled dinner. It’s a little outrageous how a ten year old has Derek all clamped up while his mind thrums with bad, wrong, no good abusing thoughts which then becomes a self-deprecating aroused state.

It’s a little messed up, really.

“Stiles,” Derek grits out, wiping at the sauce that got on his beard. He also makes a mental note to shave tomorrow, or some other time in the near future. No hurry though since Stiles seems to like it. (Not that he’s keeping it for him. Well, not _all_ incorrect.) “Don’t do that. It’s not good table manners.”

“But it’s so good,” Stiles whines but then pops the spoon of his mouth. “You’ve got to teach me the ways of such _nom_ greatness, _Dur_ -ek, because if I ever lost you in battle, I might die from hunger.”

Derek chuckles, “And you deny being the dramatic one.”

“It’s not being _dramatic_ ,” Stiles mocks, pulling a face while Derek gathers the plates. “It’s me, _Stiles_ , being real with you. I don’t think I can go back to my dad’s burnt soup after this meal.”

Derek tosses a slightly wet rag over his shoulders, aiming at Stiles. “Don’t let your dad hear that. He might not let me in the next time once he knows I’ve got favouritism over his kid.”

“What’s that?”

“Favouritism?”

“Uh-huh.”

He slides the washed plates into the drying rack, “It, uh, means you like me best.”

Stiles hums, “Also true. You’re number _wah_ right now. Scott’s a poophead.”

Derek tries to wilt the shit eating on his face but to no avail, “Well, the feeling’s mutual, kid.”

Stiles beams back at him, nose scrunching a little.

-

Stiles’ bedroom is an utter mess by the time half past seven rolls around. It’s disastrous and Derek really needs to learn how to say no when time comes. Unfortunately, whenever it’s accompanied by that high, whining tone and puppy, pleading eyes—yeah.

His resolve weakens.

It started with:

“Hey,” Stiles nudges at his feet. “ _Oi_ , De _reeek._ Don’t ignore me. C’mon! There are no nice cartoons on television right now.”

Derek hums, pretending to be oblivious to Stiles’ mopey little face.

“Can we _please_ do something or, I’m being serious here, I’ll explode from boredom!” Stiles raises his voice, tone warningly. “I’m not even joking. I’ll be splattered all over you. It’ll take _days_ to wash out Stiles’ boringness off you.”

Derek nudges back at him, eyes still trained on the television set. “But it’s the power puff girls.”

“Yeah, but I’ve already watched this episode a hundred, _gazijillion_ times! Please! Entertain me, ya’ evil beard.”

Derek blows out a breath and goes to click the television shut, “Fine. What would you like to do?”

Twenty minutes later, they have a makeshift fort in Stiles’ bedroom. Well, technically, it was Derek’s idea to make it but only because Stiles was getting a little too adventurous with his suggestions. He doesn’t want to go out in public with crusted hair horns. Not that he has a reputation or anything but, y’know.

It’s a small town.

So, they holster up two chairs from the living hair to upstairs and have them settled a few feet away from Stiles’ bed and then uses both of their “capes” and a one of Stiles’ old Superman sheets that’s faded in colour, and probably in size too. Derek may be a little judgemental when he sees it since Stiles raves about Batman so much.

“What?” Stiles pipes defensively when he notices Derek’s little eye glare. “Hey, everyone goes through a Superman phase, alright! You can’t hold it against me. I’ve seen the light now, though. At least they’re not like Scott’s!”

“And dare tell, what are his?”

Stiles giggles a little, “SpongeBob. He also told me once that he wanted to grow up and live in the sea, too, and that I could be the Squid ward to his SpongeBob.”

Derek snorts, “Don’t they hate each other? It’ll make more sense if you’re Patrick, though.”

“Well,” Stiles drawls, clambering over a chair to adjust one of the sheets that’s slipping from where it’s hooked under the leg. “I wouldn’t call it _hate._ It’s more like a… uh, angry loving type of thing. They’re totally secret besties. Also, I’m not a Patrick because I can play instruments on my nose too.”

This time Derek can’t contain the laugh, “Oh, really?”

“Yes, really.” Then he proceeds to show him about said nose instrument.

There’s mucus wetting on Stiles’ upper lips once he’s done, giving a curtsey and Derek’s side ache from cracking up so much. “Oh god, make it stop. Don’t do that anymore, Stiles.” He chokes out. “You’re making a mess everywhere.”

Stiles sniffs, wipes his nose down the front of his shirt. “Heh, well, it proves that you _really_ like me then, since you’re not all grossed out by my germs.”

Derek should be repulsed. He should, but Stiles is shooting him a toothy grin, eyes all squinted and button nose a pretty shade of pink from having clamped in between his fingers just now and he’s just—so _gone_ for this kid.

“I don’t think being friendly with _anyone’s_ germs proves anything.” Derek tells, well, lies.

Stiles harrumphs, “Well— your face doesn’t prove anything!”

“Weird, isn’t it?” Derek acknowledges in thin sarcasm, pawing a little at his face. “I ought to get a return voucher! Stiles needs a face that proves!”

Stiles pinches him at the waist and knees him at the back of his knee, “Meanie.”

Derek chuckles, “I’m evil, remember?” Then picks up two torchlights that Stiles has thrown haphazardly when they were starting to compile all the things they needed for the fort. “Shall we?”

Stiles snatches one of them off his hands and smirks, “S’mine now! And yes, _Dur_ -ek, we shall.” Then he sinks down to his knees, slowly nudging his way into the fort. “Welcome, welcome to The Best Fort Made Ever.”

Derek squeezes in after Stiles, tries not to pop his head up because he’s a lot bigger than Stiles and he doesn’t want to sour the moment by having the entire fort collapse on them because he can’t contort his neck to a certain angle.

If this ends with a sprain, well, at least it’ll be a good memory.

“Alright?” Stiles asks once they’ve got their limbs all in order and Derek is flat on his back, looking up at the faded Superman sheet. “You’re like a giant in here. Are you a giant, _Dur_ -ek?”

“No,” Derek huffs. “You’re just tiny. A teeny little baby boy.”

“Not a baby,” Stiles shoots back and if Derek looks over at the kid, he’s pretty certain that there’s an on-going pout too. “Can we try switching on the flashlights now? I’m really excited!”

Derek laughs softly, feels the warm puffs of air whipping back onto his face. “Go on, then. Knock yourself out.”

It’s a little customized because Derek sometimes has great ideas, which, fine. He admits reusing from when Laura was in her artsy phase and made everything all Laura- _dazzled_. So, Derek teaches Stiles to cover the front of the torch with a thin, coloured napkin and it’ll successfully change its plain old, warm beam of light into—well, any spectrum of colours if you so wish for with your napkin.

Stiles chose a daring red while Derek went for a hue of vibrant colours. It’s supposed to be ironic but trying to explain that to a ten year old may prove problematic.

“Wow,” Stiles breathes out, watching the way a faint pink emits out from the torch instead then he looks over at Derek’s and his eyes widens. “Yours is so cool, man! I should’ve gone for the other one with many colours too!”

“Yours is pretty, though. It’s very suiting.” Derek tells and he’s not saying it to pacify the kid. It really is.

The way it lights up the shadows of their fort, melts onto the pale of Stiles’ skin, almost like a flush but not as organic as the ones Derek remembers, especially the one he had that night. When Stiles burned into a blush, cheeks full and mouth slack open as he mouths against the flat of his shoulder.

“Yeah, but yours looks like fireworks!”

“Fireworks?” Derek asks, intrigued, waving his torch around. “In Beacon Hills?”

“Oh, no.” Stiles replies, twisting his own torch around so that their beams mould into each other until it becomes a flurry of colours. “Dad drove us out to, uh, somewhere. I forgot where it was. I was still pretty young. There was like, a lake? Yeah, and we were out there celebrating my mom’s birthday.” He quietens his voice a little. “She’s a valentine’s baby.”

Derek smiles, little finger searching out for Stiles’ own and wraps onto it once he manages to find it. “And how were the fireworks?”

“Pretty,” Stiles exhales, eyes fluttering shut and pinkie tightening a little onto Derek’s. “I can’t remember much of it but it was definitely loud. I couldn’t hear myself talk for a few hours after that! Uh, that and I saw dad and mom, you know.” He pulls a face that Derek catches from his peripheral. “ _Kissing_. Lots.”

Derek shouldn’t, but yet he does. The question slips out of his mouth fluidly, almost as easy as wanting this boy, laws and deputy’s son be damned. “What’s wrong with kissing?”

“It’s all—” Stiles tries to find a word but comes up with nothing so he huffs. “I don’t know. S’just weird, like that time when I tried to lick Scott’s tongue.”

Derek tries to angle his body around so that he’s actually looking at Stiles. He knows it’s a bad idea. The two of ‘em, plunged in the darkness and a fort to keep them out from the reality of it all while just two dim torches barely highlighting the planes of their profiles.

It takes quite a lot of manoeuvring before Derek actually gets comfortable, “You do know that kissing’s a lot more than just licking tongues, right, baby boy?”

“Uh, not really?” Stiles squeaks a little when Derek goes to still his flailing arm that’s waving the torch around. “I mean, there are a few boys in my class that brags whenever they… you know, kiss during lunchtime? But, I don’t really know anything. Nobody in school wants to kiss me. Dad says it’s good to wait for a nice girl, though.”

“Mm,” Derek hums, presses a small peck onto Stiles’ palm while looking straight into the boy’s wide, curious eyes. “It’s kinda like that, light, but against your lips.”

“Like what you did the other night?” Stiles asks, stares as Derek leans in again and leaves another peck into the center of his hand although this time, lingers for a beat. “On my neck? I liked that. It hurt a bit, though. I didn’t think kisses would hurt.”

“No, no.” Derek pulls back a bit, remembering the last time when he went a little overboard. He was too hazy with edged arousal and the fervent need to come. _Abuser_ , his conscience reminds him. “M’sorry I hurt you. I didn’t mean to. I never want to hurt you, Stiles.”

“I know, _Dur_ -ek.” Stiles shuffles a little closer until their foreheads are almost bumping onto each other, torchlights tossed to their sides. “It’s like when my dad spanks me. He doesn’t mean to hurt me but I was being naughty so he needed to punish me. You said I was being naughty so—”

“No, that’s not it.” Derek cuts in, feels a little sweat already pooling at his nape. He needs to set things straight, even though it was with a kid. “I was wrong. You weren’t—weren’t naughty. You were such a good boy for me. Always. Even though you gave me these horrible devil horns, you’ve always been good for me. Do you understand me? It’s just-- sometimes, you make me feel all weird, and it’s not a bad thing.”

 _Not really_ , he doesn’t say.

“Yeah, sorta?” Stiles peeps out. “I just felt sad because I thought you didn’t want to play with me anymore because I was being bad.”

“Never,” Derek rushes out, pulls Stiles into his arms and curling his entire body so that he’s successfully cocooning the boy against him. “You make me laugh and even my sister, Laura, has a tough time doing that. And, you have such an odd mind. Always interesting, always keeping me on my toes.” He presses a dry kiss to Stiles’ temple. “You’re too good for me, baby boy.”

Stiles pulls away slightly, looks at him carefully, eyes probably adjusting to the dully lit fort. “You’re still my favourite, no matter what.” Then a small mischievous smile curls into the corner of his mouth. “Wanna know a secret, _Dur_ -ek?”

Derek raises his brows, curious, “Always.”

Stiles leans in, burrows to Derek’s side so that his mouth is hovering just above his ear, warm puffs of breath blowing against the outer shell. Derek tries his best not to shiver, or groan, or press a hand to stop his dick from thickening up.

He whispers, low and rough. “I like, _like_ you a lot and I— I wanna do the kissing thing with you.” Then he bounces back, stifling his giggles to the back of his hand.

Derek blinks, quick flashes of having Stiles’ mouth against him heating pools into the forefront of his brain. He may need a reboot, or Stiles to pinch him _hard_ at the wrist just to invoke his almost catatonic state. Thankfully, he snaps out of it when Stiles rustles hair out of his eyes a bit, movement too jarring in the small of their fort.

“Yeah?” Derek asks airily, sounding breathless already. “Are you sure? Thought you said kisses were gross.”

“But—” Stiles whines a bit, sidling closer so their elbows knock against each other. “You’re different from Scott. He always has cookie breath.”

“You have cookie breath,” Derek retorts teasingly and then presses a light peck onto Stiles’ knuckles, grazes his lips against the smooth skin of his fingers. “I like your cookie breath, though.”

“That’s good,” Stiles whispers shakily when Derek peppers a series of faint kisses against his wrist, up to the insides of his elbow, trail up to his upper arm until he meets fabric. “Your beard feels all scratchy against my skin.” He tells, pauses. “I like it, too.”

Derek’s laugh bubbles out onto the thin skin at Stiles’ neck, inhales deeply the smell of slightly sour boy sweat and the faint endings of the mac and cheese they had for dinner. He could get used to this, or maybe he already is. The rich scent of Stiles, all worn in and homely, instead of how his old tricks used to have deodorant and cheap cologne splashed on their skins, almost making him gag.

His lips are just a few inches away from Stiles’, noses bumping each other. “You can always back out now, Stiles. It’s your first kiss. You could have it with anyone else you want.” His tongue feels like lead once he finishes but Stiles is already shaking his head, bottom lip tugging onto his teeth.

“I wanna kiss you, alright? Poophead.”

Derek grins then leans in, and there’s a long second where it feels like free fall, his entire body cut off at the source from oxygen and it’s buzzing him out of his skin while he awaits for collision. Instead, a pair of soft, soft lips presses against his and Stiles’ unsure hands flailing out to wrap around his biceps, not knowing if he should tug him closer or just to have something to anchor on.

When they part, it’s with a gentle smack of lips parting and Stiles’ heavy exhale.

“Wow,” Stiles whispers, voice croaking. “Again?”

Derek forgets the complete usage of words because all he does is nod his head, eyes already shutting as he goes in for another. This time it’s a lot less tense. Stiles is probably already warming up to having someone being all up in his personal space so his body goes a little lax around Derek’s arms, signifying trust and giving up a little of control.

Derek doesn’t take, though. He won’t. Not after what happened on Wednesday. This time Stiles leads and he’ll follow.

So, when Stiles purses his lips a little, finally reciprocating the soft movements that Derek has been pressing against his mouth, Derek tries his best not to groan. Even the skin around Stiles’ mouth smells a bit like dinner, and somewhat of peanut butter. It’s all so unsure, so unknowledgeable— _virginal_ , that he doesn’t realize he’s so hard in his shorts until Stiles lets out this broken little whimper.

They part for a bit; Derek’s sweat clammy forehead resting against Stiles’ own balmy one. “God, _Stiles_.” He exhales, shaky. “You drive me crazy, you know that?”

Stiles’ eyes shouldn’t look so bright, and glassy with mirth. “I hope that’s a good thing.”

“The best thing,” Derek whispers, then. “Can I? Once more? Then we’ll go down and watch some movies?”

“Yeah—yeah.” Stiles stutters out but this time, he’s almost half straddling him and half having his leg slinging atop Derek, leg hooked just at the back of his thigh as he shifts closer. Fuck—his kid is a goddamn vixen.

“Christ,” Derek mutters out, a shattered syllable leaving his groan before he dives onto Stiles’ mouth and _kisses_ him.

It’s not too heavy but he has one hand fitted right into the sharpness of Stiles’ hip and the other cupped against his cheek, thumb brushing at the smooth apples of them. He tastes the dinner that he got made for the both of them and this jarring scent that Derek could only place as Stiles, a bite of flesh salts that Derek wants to have it permanently scented in his head.

He ruts up a bit, getting Stiles’ thigh to lightly rub against the pitching of his cock. Fuck—what is he doing?

Derek finally parts away with a muttered, “Stop, Stiles.” while he breathes rapidly and eyes are still clenched shut. He can feel the drool of precome almost slowly oozing from the cockhead slit, a yearning to have any kind of pressure pressed around his crotch to soothe the heady ache.

“I gotta—bathroom.” Then he scrambles out of the fort before Stiles can object, limbs still too wasted from being cramped in such a small area but when he gets there and has the door jammed shut, he whips his cock out in record time and jerks himself off slick with spit until his palm starts to feel like chafing heat.

When he comes, he shoots into the sink and tries not to picture Stiles’ wet, parted mouth when he does.

It’s not very successful, of course.

-

They watch The Lion King trilogy until John returns home, eyes red with exhaustion and hair all fingered messy. John clambers into the kitchen after giving Stiles a big, bear hug, while he goes to making himself some warm toast before heading off to bed while Derek heads up to tuck Stiles in because, “You do it, son. I’m pretty sure he’ll kick a fuss if he doesn’t get his last few Derek time.”

When Stiles is all warm under the covers, he whispers, “Can you give me a goodnight kiss, too?”

Derek’s already free fallen so there’s really no use of trying to deny anything Stiles wants because he’s always ready to give them up. So, he does. Leans in and parts with a soft peck against those lips that he already dearly misses but then Stiles hooks him at the back of his neck, leans in and swipes him a touch of teasing tongue.

Stiles then swiftly ducks under his covers, words muffling against the pillow, “’Ruv you, _Dur_ -ek.” And then pretends to fake snore so Derek wouldn’t be able to respond.

Derek chuckles to himself because this kid is the most precious person to _ever,_ whispers back. “Love you too, baby boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, (ducks away from throwing vegetables) I have a serious procrastination problem and this took a lot longer than I expected because I had so much issues with writing this. It was either the story wasn't flowing right or the content was starting to bug me out but I /know/ this story. It's all in my head. I just can't find the words to put them onto paper, so, I must sadly conclude that: 
> 
> This is not the end but due to unforeseeable future, I may not be updating too regularly! There's probably two more chapters left, maybe three if I wanna be adventurous with an Epilogue but, we'll see! I hope you guys don't stone me because there's no dirty do here. But!!!! First kiss *o*


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